


Vahingonilo

by curiositykilled



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: All the Avengers are a little fucked up, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Author Is Sleep Deprived, Brothers, Coulson is the voice of reason, Mind Control, Natasha doesn't do emotions well, Psychological Trauma, Repressed Emotions, SHIELD don't give a fuck, The Author Regrets Everything, Torture, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, and honestly i don't even care because it keeps changing in my head, and watching Supernatural too much, loki didn't get taken to asgard, loki really doesn't do much, no one deals with anything in a healthy way, you can read like half these relationships as platonic or romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-23
Updated: 2016-10-26
Packaged: 2018-01-05 16:02:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 24,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1095910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiositykilled/pseuds/curiositykilled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the Tesseract event, Loki didn't get taken to Asgard, and he's been silent ever since.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

They think him defeated when their armored man plummets from the sky and the Chitauri fall like husks around them, and it is all he can do not to laugh. His brother looms and grumbles low as the thunder lurking around his foul mood, but he does not protect Loki anymore. _Good_ , he thinks viciously, relishing the raw, unasked-for pain that grips his chest like it’s searching for a heart that isn’t there anymore. Maybe it never was, he allows faintly, enjoying the pain and anger that course through his veins with a green fire, so far removed from the placid insanity that washed through his blood these past few days.

                It is to their fortress that they take him, a formation around him as if their feeble guns can really hold him, a god, back. The metal surrounding his glass walls don’t worry him; there isn’t a lick of seidr in these human creations, and even if there was, he knows he could manipulate it to his will. He doesn’t allow himself to admit that that would be the only chance he’d have of using seidr; since the vault, his seidr has been skittish and wild, scurrying away from his grip like a wounded fox. He refuses to acknowledge that he knows why, but that he does keeps him from worrying.

                Inside the barren prison, he smirks and sets his feet apart in a widening stance to compensate for the broad paldrons and leathers they took from him. He may not be as wide as Thor, but he is infinitely more dangerous. He can stand here for ages and let their walls crumble down around him while he plans. He can be patient, and that should scare them far more than the brash behavior he’s demonstrated in the past week. He will wait and plan, and when he is free, he will take the realms apart brick by brick until Asgard’s gold melts under the heat of his hatred. He can see the way they will look at him as they burn, and his smirk sharpens at the revulsion and fear he sees.

                “Little god,” a voice, heavy and sibilant, hisses into his ear, and Loki stiffens, “have you forgotten our bargain?”

                He doesn’t flinch or speak aloud, but it is all he can do not to panic as numbing blue runs through him like rain on pine needles. He has been through this before. He will survive. He is Loki, he is invulnerable, he is – he is – he is no match for this.

                “You promised me the Tesseract, little god,” the voice hums, neutral and mildly amused – the flatness is what worries Loki – “and in return, I would allow you to keep this petty realm for your entertainment. Do you recall this?”

                “You should never trust a liesmith’s word, fool,” Loki manages to snarl out, his voice in his mind as clench and strained as if he were to try to speak aloud through his clenched teeth. “I have done nothing but that which I have desired.”

                The voice chuckles softly, and this time, Loki flinches as a cold hand pats his cheek.

                “Oh, I know, little one,” it hums, “but you do recall what I offered you should you fail, do you not?”

                Loki grits his teeth, searching for something to pull him from the voice’s grip. He is hardly afraid of their threat, that he should beg for mercy under their ungentle caresses; they have skinned him, burnt him, taken out his eyes – do they really expect to find something that will break him? He scoffs at the thought.

                “Even your best torturers could not break me, Thanos,” he spits. "You will have no more success.”

                “The Chitauri were mere puppets, little god. They are only versed in physical torture, in breaking a body until it cannot be dissected further,” the voice reassures. “To break a soul – that is much more difficult, and far more rewarding.”

                Breathing carefully, Loki pries through the blue fog, seeking out those memories that his would-be master has artfully hidden away inside his own mind. He knows they are there, knows that they should be able to center him, keep him from slipping under the blue tide. For the life of him, he cannot find them.

                “Now, wouldn’t you like to see your work?” the voice suggests, a smirk in its tone.

                Before the liesmith has a chance to breathe or reply, his heart seizes and blue frosts him over. Pain tears into his chest, pulverizing the flat, strong bones there, but it’s not his pain, not from the live nerves sprawled through his body. It’s – it’s a girl’s, a slender blonde girl with blue eyes that well up in painful tears, and instead he sees rain from stormy skies, and as the strange creatures shoot overhead, he feels his heart ripping and burning because there’s a boy, a tiny child crouched just a few feet away, but the cement on his chest is breaking him and he cannot move, cannot help the – cannot bre- _cannot_ -

                In the monitor room, two desk jockeys grumble about their irregular shifts and watch the screens boredly. A few prisoners rave and rant against the confinement, some throw themselves at the walls, and then there’s Prisoner No. 149145.

                “Has he moved at all?” one gripes.

                “No,” his companion sighs, sipping at her coffee.

                “I thought he was supposed to be some big, end-the-world kind of guy,” the first one mutters, toggling through camera views.

                “Maybe he’s tired,” the other suggests.

                The man snorts and downs a gulp of macchiato.

                “Yeah, sure,” he scoffs, pausing on a large, raging prisoner’s screen. ”Now, if only this guy’d get the memo.”


	2. Chapter 2

                “Hey, Tash, heard you were back and uh – well, y’know I’m still stuck on desk duty, so I was wondering if you’d want to go out sometime. Y’know, drinks, pretend to be normal, not talk about killing people. Uh, yeah. Anyway, call me back. _Click._  End of messages,” the answering machine announced, voice shifting from a hesitant, masculine tone to the flat, feminine one of the machine.

                Tossing her keys down, Natasha sighed and slung her duffel onto the kitchen counter beside them. Beyond the counter was little more than a fridge and two cupboards, and the keys skidded till they hit the answering machine on the same end of the counter. Her jacket found itself hanging neatly on the coatrack, her shoes tucked safely away, but the rest of her clothes ended up tossed across the apartment floor as she peeled them off on her way to the bathroom. She’d pick up later; now, she needed a shower.

                Inside, she flicked on the lights before cranking the water dial to its hotter quartile and stepping under the scalding stream. It burnt where it tapped against her bruised side and cheekbone, but she closed her eyes, running her hands through growing red hair. It had been only three months since New York, but she was keeping tabs on how much her hair had grown in the same way Clint kept stock of how many of each particular arrow he kept. They each needed their distractions.

                Shampoo lathered into foam on her fingertips as she worked her way across her scalp, focusing on slow, easy breaths that didn’t budge her broken ribs. SHIELD would undoubtedly want to give her a work-up, even though they knew her body would heal fine on its own – precisely _because_ they knew her body would heal up fine.

                Six minutes later, she was out and pulling a v-neck and jeans on. Like her catsuit, these were fitted and snug against the curves of her body, but her hair was left loose to brush against the tops of her shoulder blades; she was created with a specific design in mind, and who was she to defy her maker?

                After tugging on boots and fetching her keys once more, Natasha was striding down the sidewalk towards the nondescript building that housed one of the most dangerous organizations in the world. The crowd pressing around her rushed past with little more notice than any attractive woman in a well-fitted outfit warranted, heedless of the plotting and scheming and war going on two blocks down in a plain, square hunch.

                “Afternoon, Lydia!” the secretary greeted, his blue eyes warmed by a friendly smile.

                “Hey, Ben,” Natasha waved back.

                She didn’t attach herself to people, didn’t think about who she’d died for or kill for – she catalogued people by the level of debt she owed them or they owed her – but it would be unfortunate if Ben were to die in one of SHIELD’s endeavors. He had only married his boyfriend two weeks after the Tesseract Incident and was indomitably cheerful. While she didn’t exactly share his rainbows-and-sunshine view of the world, it was a nice difference from the terse rush that had intensified within SHIELD’s workings since June.

                Typing in her keycode, the elevator doors slid open, and she was soon downstairs on one of the techier floors and walking into Fury’s office.

                “Romanoff,” Fury greeted flatly, his usual growl in its less intimidating form for now.

                “Sir,” she answered.

                “I read your debrief, Romanoff,” he announced, and she waited.

                Finally, Fury looked up to level his monocular stare at her.

                “You killed three potentially valuable informants,” he reminded her.

                “They couldn’t be brought in, so I terminated them. Is there a problem?” she rejoined, a pause before, “Sir.”

                “They were men, Romanoff; no stronger than any you’ve subdued previously. Why exactly couldn’t you bring them in?” he demanded, growl lowering in a warning.

                “Bad luck, I guess,” she chirped back.

                His gaze was vicious and angry, but he didn’t protest any further. Holding her gaze for a few moments longer, he finally shuffled a few papers on his desk. It was a distraction, a way to shove the topic stage left without actually admitting the motive for bringing up the debrief.

                “Have you considered the Avengers proposal further?” he asked instead.

                “No,” she replied simply.

                “Why?” Fury prompted.

                “Between the veritable time bomb created by that concoction of damaged psyches and the fact that I’m more valuable solo, I don’t see much benefit for anyone in my being a member,” she answered, “Of course, there’s also that little bit about three of your chosen members being unavailable – Stark and I don’t make much of a team.”

                “Is that really why you refuse to join, Romanoff? ‘Cause I kinda’ think it’s because you’re used to being the star – Black Widow bringing in another successful mission, Black Widow running down the KGB – you don’t want to share the limelight, ‘cause you’re afraid you’ll be outshone.”

                Natasha watched him back with an unamused, unflustered expression. He could hypothesize till he was blue in his face and his remaining eye popped out, and he wouldn’t get any reaction she didn’t choose. She wasn’t the best at masking her feelings, per se, but it was damned hard to find someone better.

                “Is that all, Director?” she inquired once he’d finished his monologue.

                His lips thinned and tightened, but he eventually let out a puff of air.

                “You are dismissed, Agent Romanoff,” he replied.

                A curt nod, and she stood, closing the door with a gentle huff behind her. Closing her eyes in what looked like a blink, she checked her phone before turning left. It took only a few minutes for her to find her way down to the infirmary wing, and her ID allowed immediate access to the room she intended.

                “I didn’t think you’d come to see me,” Phil announced.

                Supine on the bed, he offered a wan smile in greeting, and her own lips flickered in a reflection of the expression. She wheeled a stool over beside his bed and sat down gingerly, hooking her heels onto the lower rungs.

                “I was in the building,” she allowed.

                “I heard,” Phil agreed, nodding slightly.

                His chest was still wrapped in bandages despite it being nearly healed. When Loki’d stabbed him in the chest, and everyone had thought him dead, it hadn’t been without reason. The scepter had pierced the lining of his heart, causing cardiac tamponade and immediate surgery. Fury had been the only one save the doctors to stand over his bed for the first month, and Natasha had only gained entrance by breaking in the first time. After that, Fury hadn’t bothered to try and stop her.

                “How’s Clint?” Phil asked after a few moments’ silence.

                “He’s…okay,” she answered, hesitating slightly, “Still stuck on desk duty, which is pissing him off.”

                Coulson’s pale skin crinkled into a frown over his forehead, and his hands folded neatly over his waist.

                “He still hasn’t passed the psych evals?” he queried, concern coloring his tone.

                “No. He won’t talk about it, though, and I can’t find anything about therapy,” she admitted.

                “And he doesn’t know about me?” Phil asked cautiously.

                Natasha lifted impassive eyes to his face, trying to read his blank features for some cue. Staredowns between the two were like two vipers eyeing each other and expecting one to win.

                “No,” she answered.

                The viper façade faded slightly as Phil’s gaze lowered, concern causing the aversion, and Natasha watched carefully.

                “Have you considered the repercussions of not telling him?” he queried, “If Clint isn’t passing his psych evaluations now, how is going to be when he finds out that you, one of the only people he trusts, has been lying to him for three months?”

                “He doesn’t expect me to be honest,” she replied with a shrug, “and if he did, he’d be a fool.”

                Phil nodded slightly, eyeing her.

                “Have you considered it?” he asked.

                “Telling him? It didn’t seem worth it, since you were likely to die anyway. No point in telling him you were back from the dead only to watch you die again,” she answered.

                “And the Avengers?” he prompted.

                “What about them?” Natasha asked.

                “Fury said you were refusing to even consider being a part,” Phil continued, “Even though it’d get you out of SHIELD for a while, give you a break.”

                “I don’t need a pack of testosterone-pumped supermen around me. I work better alone,” she retorted.

                “You’re a great agent alone,” Phil agreed, nodding, “but you were invaluable in New York. Your ‘supermen’ could use your head.”

                She scoffed, eyes hooding disdainfully as she glanced away. _Yes, it’d be great. Getting harassed by Tony Stark and tiptoed around by Rogers and Banner. Great._ It was far, far better to deal with the invasion’s fallout with sex and murder.

                “I’m fine, Phil,” she reassured.

                “Of course. But your my agent, and that means I worry,” Phil replied with a small, vaguely rueful smile.

                “Don’t,” she suggested with a reflected smile, “I can take care of myself.”

                He chuckled faintly and sighed.

                “Yeah, I know you can. Anyway, have you decided?” he queried.

                A blink and blank stare later had him mentally smacking his forehead against the sidetable.

                “About…?” she prompted.

                “Prisoner Fourteen-nine-fourteen-five? Fury didn’t – never mind. It was just a suggestion, and he didn’t take it,” Phil hastily backpedaled, doing his utmost to appear nonchalant.

                “Phil, what are you talking about?” she demanded.

                “Fury just had an idea, and he said he would talk it over with you,” he evaded, “It’s not my business to talk about it.”

                Narrowing her eyes, Natasha eyed him warily but didn’t press. Unlike her marks or wards, she couldn’t break him – didn’t have any reason or desire to do what would be necessary to break him – and eventually, she relented.

                “Call me when you’re discharged,” she ordered, standing and flicking the stool away with her fingertips.

                Phil nodded, and she turned to go.

                “Natasha?” he called as she reached the door.

                Turning over her shoulder, she paused for his call. His carefully masked face was painted with a mix of worry, regret and pain, and fear clawed through her ribs at this undisguised emotion. Phil was not a robot, but between the two of them, there wasn’t all that much humanity.

                “Take care of yourself, okay?” he asked, “And check in on Clint.”

                “’course,” she lied, then turned and left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas! Also, probkis won't be updating this frequently ever again, but I'm calling it your Christmas gift. (Sorry)


	3. Chapter Two

Fire crackled around them, burning through bodies and forest alike as the rabble pressed in against the five warriors dueling in their own circles. Admittedly, dueling was…kind. Fandral’s delicate swordplay and exacting footwork was exactly what would be expected in a true duel, and Hogun fought with a similar amount of precision and succinctness, but the hacking and slashing of the other three was definitely not duel-worthy.

Hand shooting out to recall Mjolnir, Thor twisted to uppercut an oncoming man before hurling the hammer through three more ruffians. Volstagg’s axe swung through the tide with a matching lack of delicacy, and the limbs he severed flung out with only a loop of blood connecting them to their previous owners. Sif, despite her fair features and graceful weaponry, wasn’t doing much better; her shield had been torn away at some point, and the blows she struck with her sword were designed for quick deaths and not for ballads’ picturesque scenes.

All in all, they were enjoying themselves.

“Just like old times, eh, Thor?” Fandral called cheerily, slipping his sabre neatly through the ribs of a nearby opponent.

“Aye, minus the Frost Giants and idiot plans,” another voice called cheekily, and for the briefest of moments, Thor straightened, scanning the field for seidr-brightened green eyes and a dervish of blades.

Instead, he found himself face-to-face with a greyish rogue whose life had just been ended by Sif’s blade through its throat.

“By the nine, Thor, you’re out of it,” she laughed, yanking her sword out to fend off the oncoming tide, “Did you miss your beauty rest last night?”

He laughed his usual, hearty guffaw and brushed away the question with some trivial jest. He hadn’t rested well the night before, or the night before that, or nine months’ worth of nights before that. It didn’t matter. He was a warrior and a prince: his duty was not to mourn for those who had lost themselves but to keep fighting and protect his realm. A warrior did not get a grieving period.

When they’d slashed their way through enough of the throng to tame the rogues and the remainders had been shuttled off to Asgard’s ready prisons, the Asgardians washed and prepared themselves quickly for Alfheim’s reception of their defenders. They had no time to change, but the men scrubbed the muck from their faces and Sif tugged her hair into a long, sleek ponytail that wasn’t entirely out of place in the delicate elves’ court.

“Prince Thor, Lady Sif, the Warriors Three,” the elvish king greeted, arms outspread, “we welcome you to our table and offer up our eternal thanks for your service in protecting our realm. For the victors, we present our tokens of gratitude. Prince Thor and Lady Sif, please join me.”

“Don’t see why they always get the gifts. We should go up there sometime, eh, Hogun? No? Not at a- _okay, okay, I’m sorry_ ,” Fandral scrambled in a pained whisper as his companion yanked the arm from around his shoulder into a painful hold behind his back.

As directed, Sif and Thor had risen and approached the dais on which the king stood before kneeling at the steps respectfully. Glancing over, Sif bit the inside of her lip at the solemn, hollow expression on her friend’s face but didn’t budge out of her expected place.

“To the fair lady we present this comb, made of our finest wood and honey opal. May its radiance always reflect your own, my lady,” the king declared as a servant rested the delicately carved comb in Sif’s hands.

“I thank you, Your Majesty,” she answered softly.

“To the golden prince we give this dagger of our finest steel. May its edge never fail you in times of need,” the king continued, resting a sheathed knife in Thor’s palm.

Sunlight glinted off the jade-inlaid handle, and Thor glanced up in surprise. Above him, the king offered a soft, sorry smile that seemed echoed in the ancient depths of his blue-grey eyes.

“We offer our deepest condolences on the fate of your brother, Your Highness,” the king added in a voice too soft to be heard by anyone else, “His loss is felt deeply here, as well.”

“I…thank you, Your Majesty,” Thor managed haltingly.

“Then let the feast begin!” the king announced, the momentary sorrow and empathy vanishing into the pleasant placidness of an elvish host.

Sif leaned over as they walked back to the table, gaze caught by the gleaming hilt of the dagger and the intricate engravings in the leather sheath.

“Looks like Loki,” she admitted, her voice cool and aloof.

Thor nodded slightly.

“He had many friends here,” he reminded her quietly.

She scoffed at the thought and shook her head.

“Norns, Thor, you would believe the best of him even now,” she muttered, something dark in her tone.

Before he could reply, she had settled in beside the Warriors Three and started up a noisy chatter with Volstagg. Finding a quieter corner on a balcony, Thor leaned against the rail and drew the dagger. It was heavier and longer than a throwing knife, but the weighting was perfect for melee, and he toyed with his hold on it for a few moments. He had never had any penchant for knives, but even he could appreciate the craftsmanship with which the blade had been made.

“It’s a good blade. Enchanted against tarnishing,” a quiet voice commented behind him.

Turning slightly, Thor’s jaw tensed slightly at the sight of a slim, green-garbed elvish woman. He turned back to the railing, but she settled beside him with her arms resting on the rail. Her flowing robes were a bright, jade green that matched the pommel stone of the blade (matched Loki’s eyes when he laughed - matched the seidr-flames he'd conjure up when they were out, alone – matched his clothes -  matched _Loki_ – ), but her wrists were bound with black leather bracers that had runed serpents twining about their borders.

“It was not for me,” Thor commented.

“No,” Angrboda agreed, “it was not, but the enchantments were easy enough to switch. Anyway, I don’t imagine he’ll be coming back for it.”

Her voice was devoid of any hope, simply accepting of the fact, but Thor still felt a hint of guilt well, oil-like, in his chest.

“I am sorry,” he offered lowly.

Angrboda scoffed, fixing her pale eyes on him in a condescending sneer. It was an altogether too familiar expression.

“Loki did as he wished, as always, Thor. You couldn’t have stopped him anymore than you ever were able to,” she spat, “Don’t try to take responsibility for something you never could have done. It only makes you a self-sacrificing oaf.”

Somehow, it had never been surprising that the witch had been among his brother’s closest friends.

“Thor, what’re y’doing out here?” Fandral demanded happily, clinging to the doorframe for support, “Y’r missin’ all th’fun.”

Forcing a smile onto his ruddy face, Thor straightened and buckled the dagger onto his belt before following his friend back into the fray. It felt wrong on his hip, as if it wanted to be there no more than he wished it to, and he made a silent promise to place it with his brother’s remaining articles. There wasn’t much left, not after they’d sent a burning ship over the falls when he first fell into that same void, but he’d managed to keep a few simple tokens to remind him of who once was his closest companion, and the chest in which they resided would have plenty of room for the dagger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I always end these things with "hopefully, that made sense," but that's really all I've got.


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: lots of profanity (Fury's entrance couldn't possibly be _civil_ , now could it?)

                “What do you mean he hasn’t fucking moved in three months?” Fury roared, “He’s fucking living, isn’t he? Then how the fuck is he eating if he isn’t moving?”

                He didn’t bother to go into the fact that, god or no, there were plenty of other necessary functions that required moving. The trembling girl standing before him seemed to have gotten the message, regardless.

                “He isn’t, sir,” she explained, her voice fighting to keep from squeaking, “That’s the problem. He’s just not…moving at all, sir.”

                 Closing his one eye and breathing in slowly – he _had_ listened to the damned anger management people, even if he’d immediately sworn them out of the room – he reminded himself firmly that this woman (he could only remember the nickname that she’d earned as an intern when her voice chirped at the level of a mouse’s) was not the source of his problems. It was that damned alien who’d started the mess, and he hadn’t stopped yet.

                “Get fucking Agent Romanoff,” he ordered.

                For a brief moment, the woman hesitated, as if trying to sort out which of those was meant to be the verb, but once she’d deciphered it, she was off. Heaving a sigh, Fury started to turn to his right hand man – only to find, as he had for the past three months, an empty space.

                “Motherfuck,” he grumbled, stalking out of the room with a snap of leather coattails.

                The trip down to the infirmary was too long and left the director veritably steaming out his ears, his expression foreboding enough to have anyone he neared darting out of the way into the nearest office, cubicle or janitor’s closet. By the time he reached Phil’s door, Fury could’ve sworn he still heard the echo of mop handles rattling as they clattered on top of an unfortunate trainee who’d sought shelter behind the wrong door.

                “Morning,” Phil greeted evenly as his employer stormed in, a cloud as black as his name looming overhead.

                “The motherfucking alien is fucking catatonic,” Fury burst out, “ _Now_ , do you think we should bring in our best fucking interrogator?”

                Phil’s mild expression met Fury’s outburst with all the reaction of a marble wall before a tempest’s gale. One eyebrow rose slightly, and as if chastised by a stern nun with a ruler in hand, Fury felt his temper subside gradually to a pouty grumble as he dropped into a nearby seat and glared half-heartedly at his second-in-command.

                “Loki isn’t fucking moving or eating, and none of our fucking techies can get him to do anything,” he clarified shortly.

                “And you think Natasha can?” Phil queried skeptically.

                “Who the fuck can’t she break?” Fury retorted, “Now, why the fuck don’t you want her in there?”

                Shifting his legs slightly, Phil paused to stare at the opposite wall with his lips pursed ever-so-faintly. For a moment, Fury forced himself to sit still and let the man organize his thoughts. He had never been gifted with an inordinate – or, really, _ordinary_ – amount of patience, but a few weeks with Phil as his second had quickly trained him into something similar for short amounts of time. It was incredible what the man could do with one disapproving look.

                “Natasha is incredibly strong,” Phil started, “both physically and mentally – we’ve known this since long before Budapest. But she isn’t a robot, Nick. She is human, and when she tricked Loki last time, she opened herself up in a way she doesn’t ever open up. She was acting, but all great actors pour some off themselves into their roles, and the best pour all of them into it. That fragility she showed – it wasn’t exactly true, but it wasn’t a lie. There’s a reason why her file’s still tagged for instability, and exposing her to that stimulus again is only asking for trouble. It’s not worth it to risk her just to poke at our prisoner. We’ve captured him. If he’s not doing anything, well, isn’t that a good thing?”

                “Not if he starves to death because he’s too fucking stupid to eat!” Fury snapped, “I’d love the fucker to rot down there, but if Thor comes back to find his fucking little brother dead? Having the God of motherfucking Thunder on our side has, historically, been a good thing. And has Romanoff complained to you about being overloaded?”

                Phil’s gaze turned a notch towards chastising at the last question.

                “You know that’s not how she does things. It’s not how any of us do,” he reprimanded gently before continuing, “Have you tried getting ahold of Thor? He could have some insight on what’s going on with Loki.”

                “If by ‘tried getting ahold’ of him you mean standing in the middle of the motherfucking desert yelling at the sky,” Fury rumbled, “I’ve got a few bigger things on my fucking plate right now. If Romanoff has a problem with this, she can fucking tell me herself. She’s been nothing but tantrums since June, and she can damn well grow up.”

                Before Phil could offer any more arguments as to why the whole thing was a terrible idea, Fury had risen and, if not exactly stomped, _stormed_ out the door. Behind him, the medwing’s second longest inhabitant sighed and watched his fingers worriedly as they plucked at the thin white blanket over his legs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just wanted to say a huge apology for being so inactive on this story! Once I get my head on one story (ie. For Heirs of Salvation the past while), it's really hard me to pull out of it without completely losing steam. Anyway, I'll try to upload a new chapter in a decent amount of time since this one's really short, but no promises; life's completely insane right now.


	5. Interlude I

The broken bridge still hums beneath his feet despite the way its jagged terminus sparkles uselessly in the eternal late afternoon, and Loki smiles against the biting metal around his jaw. It is something welcome and familiar, and it is exactly what he expected. Odin would never let him off without a disapproving little chat about how all of this stems from Loki’s immaturity and impetuousness and clearly has nothing to do with Odin’s stuttering attempts at fatherhood.

It feels different, though, and Loki can’t hide a flicker of unease that quivers low in his chest, just beneath his sore ribs. He is certain that last time he stood on the Bifrost, its energy did not scour his body as if searching for something it could not find and he could not name; he is certain it rang within him and strengthened the motions of his body like the movements of a long-familiar dance partner. Surely, last he was here, it did not echo so hollowly within him.

He has little time to ponder this, though, as Thor jerks roughly on his elbow and veritably drags Loki along the long bridge to the gleaming gold flutes of Valaskjálf. Despite the muzzle and the heavy chains coiled serpentine around his wrists, Loki tugs away from his brother’s grip. He is not actually a dog, _thank you very much_. Thor hardly seems to notice and only tightens his hold.

Miffed, the younger god glares resolutely at the back of the golden prince’s head and remains with his gaze affixed on the small shadow where a lock falls over another until the chanting starts. At first, it is too low to warrant more than the faintest acknowledgement, but as they pass through the entirety of Asgard, the sound swells and rumbles into the growls of a hungry beast’s empty stomach. When he finally removes his gaze from Thor’s improbable gold locks, Loki finds that, while he has been focused on his brother, a thousand pairs of eyes have been equally intensely fixed on him.

 That flicker of unease molts into a worm and wriggles around his torso.

                Odin has ever been private in his family affairs – even Thor’s banishment was kept within the circle of those who absolutely had to know while the rest of the palace occupants assumed Thor was on some unreachable rock questing after a vile foe; it would hardly have been the first time, and why else would _Loki_ be king? The populace outside of Valaskjálf simply had never known that Thor wasn’t there – and to see this throng pushing against the edges of the promenade, growling and snarling as fiercely as one of Freya’s cats is worrisome. Their words are too indistinct and muddled to make out until they’ve gotten closer to the indomitable gold of Odin’s hall, and by then, Loki almost wishes he couldn’t hear them.

                “Traitor.”

                “Always knew there was something wrong with it.”

                “Monster.”

                “With that ghastly-”

                “Disgrace.”

                “Kill it quick.”

                He had known he would be punished upon reaching Asgard – had almost looked forward to it. Odin’s punishment was sure to be strict, but it would follow the same template most their talks had since Loki had passed into late childhood: disappointment and resignation over the fate of Loki-who-cut-Sif’s-hair, Loki-who-had-to-be-rescued, Loki-who-would-be-king, Loki-who-used-that-vile—

                The physical punishment would undoubtedly be some trivial thing like exile or imprisonment, but even the thought of Frigga, of seeing her face in that same crestfallen expression she’d last worn when she realized what her false son had engineered in the stead of his not-father – it had seemed like a relief, to be a monster, a failure, and accepted as such.

                This, though – this is nothing like he had expected. Odin awaits them on the steps of the great hall, but instead of leading them into his chamber for judgment and punishment, he taps Gungnir’s base into the steps to silence the crowds and tilts it forward in a sign for the heralds to lift their horns. Thor’s fanfare bursts forth, and he raises Mjolnir high, drinking in the cheers that roar up in a resounding purr from the gathered crowd. Rolling his eyes, Loki huffs a sigh that presses muggily back against his lips and sinks his weight into his right hip.

                “Thor Odinsson,” Odin declares, voice booming out against the metallic walls as the crowd gradually lowers to a pleased hum, “you were sent to the realm of Midgard in order to retrieve an artifact that was stolen from us and to stop the progress of a rogue fiend. What say you of your return?”

                “I have with me the Tesseract, the jewel of your vault, Odin-king,” Thor returns, voice echoing back to Odin like the rumble of thunder after a lightning strike, “and the beast itself!”

                This last part is said with a forceful shove against Loki’s shoulderblade, knocking him forward by a few stumbled paces. Straightening, Loki clenches his teeth and slides back into the coolly aloof posture he practiced in front of his mirror when he was too young to have learnt that no one really cared to see how he felt. It is less effective with a metal clamp hugging half his face, but if anyone is actually looking at him and not Thor, they will get the message. He doesn’t really expect that to start now, though.

                Odin’s one-eyed gaze does fall on him, though, and Loki forces himself not to flinch. Ever since he was a child, he’s thought it only fair that Odin lost his eye before he was a father; to have that intense dislike doubled as it narrowed in on him would surely have killed him before he was old enough to wield a blade. As it is, he can’t help wishing for one of his throwing knives to take out the remaining ocular.

                “Loki Laufeyson,” he growls, and the crowd hisses and snarls on cue, “you have lain among us as a serpent in hiding, spreading lies and villainy. You have betrayed those who have offered you nothing but generosity and hospitality and brought ruin against those unable to defend themselves. You have destroyed any good once thought to have crept into your black heart, and all because you desire a throne.”

                Part of Loki is dying to ask Odin who exactly raised Thor and himself with the motto “You were both born to be kings.” He knows, somehow, that he used to be able to announce that even with his mouth bound shut, but for the life of him, he can’t understand how. It doesn’t make any sense that he would be able to speak without moving his mouth. It’s almost as if – as if he’s _missing_ something – something that should fill that hollow, that empty echo – from the bridge – something – someth— _green_ –

                _Door open – two – familiar – should be – should be dead – no, no, no – **stop**_ **–**

**_Blue._**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If this seems disjointed and confusing, then, for the first time ever, I did it right :D 
> 
> Haha, yes, welcome to the Thanosified version of Loki's mind. In case you were wondering what was going on while he isn't moving.


	6. Chapter Four

                “Yeah?”

                Propping herself up on an elbow, Natasha sighed and ducked her head down to rest her forehead on the back of her palm as an agent rattled off a quick line of orders.  A muttered confirmation and she hung up, tossing the phone on her pillow before dropping her head to both hands and releasing a strangled sigh.

                The Black Widow didn’t get tired. She didn’t back down from an order or ask for sick leave. She didn’t consider for a moment requesting a few hours to catch her breath.

                It was just an interrogation. It was nothing. Chanting this mentally with all the force of Niagara, Natasha pushed herself out of bed to stretch languidly before heading to the bathroom for a quick shower.  The agent had said to be there within an hour, but Natasha's current residence had been chosen for practicality over prettiness, which left her a good forty-five minutes to get ready.

                That time, of course, was mostly spent on her morning warm up. Push-ups, pull-ups, a few of the more intense stretches from her ballerina days – it wasn’t enough to have her out of breath, but it woke her up and kept her limber on the days when she wasn’t required to sprint through a top secret base and wrestle super-soldier guards into submission.

                Rolling up from her last position, Natasha cracked a lazy yawn and trudged towards the bathroom, the last of a pleasant, tingling burn fading rapidly from her limbs. The agent hadn’t exactly been specific, only telling her that there was an interrogation for which she was needed, and somehow, Natasha couldn’t shake the ominous prickle cooling the nape of her neck.

                That prickle didn’t abate – not through her shower, through her dressing, through the walk down to SHIELD. Even as she nodded a curt hello to the secretary – Stacy today, Ben had Thursdays off – ice-cold spiders were tripping down her spine and back with hypodermic needles for feet. Prick, prick, prick – _it’s just a routine interrogation –_ prick, prick, prick – _it’s a normal Thursday –_ prick, prick, prick – _they’re not the Red Room, they won’t wipe – SHIELD doesn’t do – not to their ow-_

                “Romanoff,” a low growl greeted her in the elevator.

                “Fury,” she replied, straightening beside the director as they dropped through the glass shaft to the subterranean levels.

                The director slid his hand over the scanner, his command for ‘SB-9’ serving as the audio check to send the glass-sided shuttle hurtling downwards. Though it was far more anonymous than the Triskelion, to think the New York office weak was as foolish as thinking a wasp harmless because it lacked the spangles of a monarch; even the Chitauri had done little more than scrape its concrete walls it was secure – even if the darkened shat whizzing by reminded Natasha more of a prison than a home.

                “So what’s so urgent you called me in on my day off?” she finally asked.

                She’d actually had plans that day, even if it was only to unpackage the new rug and chair that had been delivered while she was on her last mission. Seemed like that, once again, would have to wait.

                “We have an old acquaintance of your sin custody,” Fury explained, “He’s gone on a hunger strike, and his death would throw a big-ass wrench into an important alliance. We wanna’ know what he wants.”

                Natasha hummed faintly, disinterred. Surely, the guy could’ve gone one more day without eating before they called her in.

                “Have you tried asking nicely?” she asked drily.

                “That’s the problem,” Fury replied as the doors hissed open and they started down a sterile white corridor, “He’s not talking.”

                Brows furrowing oh-so-slightly, she followed him through six separate security checkpoints, submitting to numerous scans, a mouth swab, and two full-body patdowns. At the second of these, she’d raised her eyebrows at Fury, who’d been checked just before her.

                “Last I checked, conjuring up weapons from thin air wasn’t in my skill set,” she remarked.

                Something odd had twitched in his face then, some minor flicker that set off a whole cacophony of sirens in her head. Unease began to creep its eight-legged path back up her spine.

                “We aren’t taking any chances this time,” Fury said.

                Before she could pick into any of that, a door ahead opened, revealing a sliver of glass, white wall, and Coulson walking towards them. He still moved with a slight hesitance in each step, an uncertainty as to whether he had truly survived, but he was here, and he was frowning in a way that suggested trouble.

                “Coulson,” Fury growled, nothing but warning in his tone.

                His second-in-command, though, had seemingly missed the director’s presence; instead, his focus was solely for Natasha.

                “You don’t have to do this, Natasha,” he said without any sort of introduction, “They don’t own you. You can go home.”

                “Coulson,” Fury repeated.

                “You can just go home, Natasha,” Phil reiterated, “You do _not_ have to do this.”

                Neither Natasha nor the Black Widow were of a faint stock, but there was something terrifying in the absolute intensity of his honest, pleading expression. It was much the same she’d caught on Thor’s face in the brief moments he’d had with his brother before departing to Asgard; clear as day, it said, ‘please, let me help you,’ ‘listen to me,’ ‘you will only hurt yourself more.’

                Irrational irritation bubbled up beneath her skin, scalding the nervous tiptoes that had been skittering over her spine. She needed no protection; she was no innocent girl in white. She was the Black Widow, the assassin, the spy, the girl with a ledger as red as her hair. If Phil didn’t think she could protect herself, who could?

                “Please step aside, Agent Coulson,” she replied icily, chin tilted just slightly up.

                His expression faltered slightly, and before he could reply, Fury was snapping another command to step aside. Finally, he did, and Natasha edged past with Fury nearly brushing against her shoulder.

                “Natasha, please,” Coulson pleaded one final, quiet time, but she didn’t turn around.

                The hallway through which they’d been walking had expanded now into a catwalk soaring over a network of containment cells connected to the main walk by slimmer bridges like dewdrops on a spiderweb, their opalescent sides gleaming faintly in the otherwise blackened basement. Glancing down, Natasha felt her eyebrows rise slightly at the seemingly limitless pit yawning beneath them. At least that explained what they’d intended to do should Banner become too much to handle.

                They turned left around a corner, following another walk into the observation portion of one of the cells. Bright lights illuminated dozens of small, startlingly familiar circles powering a wall full of computers. The arc reactors were slightly bigger than Tony’s and looked…off, somehow, like someone had seen half the blueprints to the device and then just winged it. And they weren’t the only ones; Stark Tech, or close approximations, were scattered throughout the banks of monitors and scanners, the angular logo peppering the black and silver like damning tinsel.

                _Not your business_ , she reminded herself silently, turning instead to study the prisoner within the actual cell. He was tall but bony, chiseled cheekbones arching under dark hollows from which dull blue eyes gazed. Despite the shoulder-width stance and loose clasp of his hands behind his back, his shoulders were stooped forward slightly, like Atlas had dropped his weight and this skinny man had been the unfortunate soul to catch it. Lank, greasy hair hung limply around his face, catching on the plain white uniform’s collar but otherwise loose in thin locks around his face.

                “I thought you said I knew him,” she remarked.

                Fury said nothing. Natasha waited, expecting him to answer whenever it suited his dramatic purposes, but he didn’t. Instead, after several long beats of gradually tightening silence, she turned to face him. A faint furrow wrinkled his forehead, but his expression was, as usual, inscrutable.

                “Well?” she prompted.

                “He’s Loki,” Fury answered slowly.

                Breathing suddenly ceased, catching noiselessly in her throat. It was suddenly too hot, too suffocatingly narrow, too tight. She couldn’t’ – she needed to – she needed –

                To calm down. As much as her thoughts were spinning in dizzying loops, her heart and lungs had continued in their steady rhythms, and, focusing on these, she shoved that blind, frenetic panic down and back, locking it away. Were her mind a building, that particular box of secrets would be little more than a matchbox; this particular _acquaintance_ deserved no moment of her worry.

                It seemed, as well, that she didn’t merit any of _his_ worry either; though she was certain the glass separating the two rooms was easily penetrable by an Asgardian’s eyes, the gaunt god hadn’t even glanced towards them since they entered. Instead, he stood as he had; loosely at attention, with his ever-so-subtle tilt. It wasn’t exactly what she expected from him, but, then again, ‘ants’ were hardly worthy of a giant’s boot, now were they?

                “How long’s he been like that?” she asked, eyeing the silent prisoner with vague distaste.

                “Since we took ‘im in,” Fury answered.

                “Three months?” she mused quietly, “He doesn’t look it.”

                “Yeah, well, he’s gonna’ if he doesn’t eat eventually,” Fury pointed out, “so we need to know why the hell he _isn’t_ eating so we can get him _to eat_.”

                It was always funny, Natasha thought, how Fury treated them like his children, with repetition and emphasis in all the unnecessary places. She wondered, briefly, how far that got him with the World Security Council – but that answer was quickly found with the memory of a nuclear warhead being shot towards New York City.

                “Then, let’s get to it,” she replied, stepping around him to admit herself into the cell.

                Even as the door clicked shut behind her, multiple electric locks snapping into place, Loki’s gaze remained blankly on the wall beside her. That was just fine. Leaning back against the door, Natasha breathed slowly in and out, all the old training kicking in. It was necessary, now, when all the names of the people he’d slaughtered were running like ticker tape through her mind, and Clint’s too-blue eyes were just before her while his fingers dug into her scalp and yanked back on her hair. He hadn’t even made an attempt at apology, merely grinned that manic, bag-of-cats leer while they snapped on the muzzle that had appeared as if from Fury’s back pocket after Loki had been defeated.

                _“He’s not talking.”_ That, at least, was new. Despite the bruised, purple-shadowed look about his eyes, Loki seemed in fine physical condition; whatever injuries he’d sustained as the Hulk’s personal rubber chicken had apparently already healed. Disgust curled hot and heavy in her throat as Natasha swung out the chair folded by the door, dropping it into an upright position with its back towards him. She straddled it, thighs just tense enough to propel her up and to the left if he made a sudden move and the chair was needed as a weapon.

                Folding her arms over the back of it, Natasha settled in to wait for at least a bit, give herself a chance to study this new Loki. Last time they’d spoken, he’d been fidgety and taut as a bowstring with nervous energy, but now, it was as if he was a marionette, caught up in his own strings. Although it was less maniacal than previous, it was certainly far less helpful as well; a moving target was one likely to err, while a frozen one was nearly impenetrable. _No_ , she corrected herself silently, _Not for you. You’ve done this before, remember?_

                “Director Fury wants to know why you’re not eating,” she started honestly, “If there’s something you want, that’s within a reasonable reach, you’ll have to tell us. Not all of us are gifted with telepathy.”

                Those dull blue eyes continued staring.

                “What’s the matter, Loki? Still sore about getting tricked by a mere mortal woman?” she taunted.

                And so went an hour.

                With each jab, question, or comment, Natasha found herself growing itchier with the ever-increasing uneasiness brought on by his silence. Had he focused on her or purposefully lifted his gaze above her face, it would have been fine, would have been expected. But this? This blank, near-comatose state? It made ants crawl under her skin, rippling through her with each moment she spent just to the side of his deadman’s stare.

                Finally, she gave up. Her breath was still even and steady, her heart as calm as ever, but the ants scurrying through her flesh had begun to freeze, locking her muscles into taut rigor in lieu of any other signs of unease. No one had said she had to break him today – except, perhaps, the silently looming fact that she’d never needed much time to break anyone.

                “Well, I think we’re done for now. I’ll see you tomorrow,” she declared, standing, “and I’ll be sure to be more interesting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look what's getting updated for the first time in a few centuries? Ahah sorry


	7. Chapter Five

                The promise held.

                Come eight o’clock the next morning, Natasha was back in the same room, standing across the table from Loki. He had yet to blink, still, and though it’d taken three guards to manhandle him into sitting, the only resistance had been his locked knees. Those needle-toed spiders were back. In Stuttgart, when he’d let them bully him onto the quinjet, he’d had a manic, cat-got-the-cream grin all the way up to Thor’s arrival. Now, dull blue eyes stared through miles of subterranean walls, face gaunt and slack. _He’s the one who took Clint out of himself_ , she reminded herself shortly.

                She didn’t bother talking today. Instead, she unzipped the black bag she’d gotten from R&D and began laying out instruments. An instrumental set designed for use on the few mutants who worked with SHIELD, she was hoping more than expecting them to work on Loki’s godly hide. Torture was out of the question, of course, but there was a use for appropriately applied pain, and SHIELD could always use more information on potential threats. If Loki didn’t open up, at least they’d get something from this.

                Uncapping a syringe, she pause to eye the would-be ruler of Earth. He was wholly pathetic looking. She jabbed the needle in. To her mild surprise, it slid into his bare forearm with the ease of an arrow through snow. More startling, however, was the barely-there gasp that came with it. Loki’s mouth parted slightly, eyelids fluttering briefly. She paused, and the moment passed. Slack-jawed and dull eyed, he stared forward. Releasing a measured breath, Natasha returned her focus to drawing his blood. Loki made no move, his breath barely raising his ribs, and his eyes drooping but unblinking. She capped the now-full vial and forced her thoughts away from the last time she’d seen this type of out-of-focus complacency. Loki wasn’t _him_. Anger bristled up her spine at the thought of comparing them, and she plucked up the scalpel lying on the table.

                 She didn’t bother swabbing down his arm before pressing the blade’s virgin edge to his skin; if he could survive the Hulk, he could survive a small infection. The scalpel blade wobbled briefly before breaking the skin and sinking down into Loki’s arm. This time, she knew she hadn’t imagined the gasp that escaped him. She continued to cut.

                “Don’t-”

                Natasha blinked, tilting her head slightly to see Loki’s face. His jaw was clenched, blinking rapidly and eyes shifting from blue to green with each blink.

                “-stop,” he gritted out.

                Finishing the last edge of the square she’d cut into his skin, Natasha peeled it up and dropped it into a sample baggie. She didn’t rush or linger, and Loki continued to release jerky, shuddery breaths throughout. She’d known plenty of men to get off on pain – whether to themselves or others: this was nothing new.

                “You like that?” she remarked. “Then talk and I’ll give it back.”

                His transient eyes widened, pupils narrowing to pinpricks, and he reached a desperate hand towards her that she sidestepped effortlessly.

                “Please,” he whimpered. “Please, don’t – don’t leave me with – no no no _nonon-_ ”

                He cut off abruptly, jaw closing and gaze drifting through the walls again. Natasha took her time packing away the samples in their case, but there was no more movement. _Someone needs to check the lights_ , she thought as she glanced back one last time. Eyes didn’t just change on their own.

                Two quick steps brought her out of the room, and directly into Clint.

                “Tasha? What’re you-” he started.

                “Are you following me?” she snapped, knuckles whitening over the black case.

                The spiders were back in full force, crowding down her arms and neck in a swarm.

                “ _What_? What the hell, Tasha? What’s going on?” Clint demanded.

                “Look, if Coulson thinks I can’t handle this, he can fuck off,” she spat. “He doesn’t need to send you to try and persuade me.”

                Clint’s face had fallen from concern to wide-eyed confusion. His mouth worked for a moment, lips forming words that didn’t quite make it out.

                “W-what do you mean if Coulson thinks you can’t? Tasha, what’s going on?” he stammered, blue eyes searching her face with painful earnestness.

                Gritting her teeth, she bolted. Evading Clint was generally easy enough – if he knew she needed to be alone, he did nothing but aid in that – and stunned as he was, he didn’t even make a move to stop her. She darted into the first elevator, slamming her palm against the scanner. It was only ten or so seconds to the top floor, but the ghost of Clint’s wide-eyed, lost expression haunted her the entire way up. _What have I done?_ She’d planned how to tell Clint about Coulson, had it all prepared in her mind how she’d break the news gently and take him immediately over to soothe the pain that would undoubtedly come from her extended lie. Now? She grit her teeth and forced herself not to think on it. Clint was a fool if he trusted her to always be honest with him. She was the Black Widow – she lied and deceived as her first nature. The thought didn’t chase away the heavy weight of guilt in her gut quite as well as she’d hoped.

                Fury was alone in his office when she stalked in, the medical case forgotten in her left hand. He glanced up briefly, expressionless.

                “It’s not a ruse,” she stated bluntly. “Whatever is preventing Loki from eating or responding, he’s not doing it intentionally.”

                One unscarred eyebrow rose slightly as Fury interlaced his fingers loosely.

                “And you know this how?” he queried.

                “I’ve seen this before. Not the exact same thing, but this level of complacency and lack of autonomy,” Natasha paused, reluctant to continue. “It’s what the Red Room did to their weapons when they weren’t in the field; shut them down, keep them quiet and docile.”

                Fury continued to eye her in silence, and she held herself loosely. She was used to his scrutiny, his blatant penchant for trying to use silence as his heavy hitter. Against the Black Widow, it was little more than a child’s attempt.

                “So, Loki’s been brainwashed,” he surmised.

                “Not necessarily,” she hedged. “There are plenty of methods that cause similar symptoms; he could have been exposed to the Tesseract too long, could have suffered brain damage from the Hulk, could have had a psychotic break. Whatever it is, though, he doesn’t have control over it.”

                He nodded shortly.

                “A docile Loki sounds just fine to me,” he announced. “You’re dismissed.”

                Natasha hesitated, some half-wiped memory urging her to prompt him into action. She shoved hard against it and pushed through the doors. Loki wasn’t _him_ , and he didn’t deserve saving. _You didn’t save him,_ that quiet voice pointed out as she stalked down to the locker rooms. _You abandoned him._ _After all he did for you, if that isn’t red in the ledger…_ Blinking back her frustration, she dropped down in the shower stall and let the hot water rain down and wash away the tears the Black Widow never shed.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahaha I have no idea what I'm doing.
> 
> Also, this story was really supposed to be about Natasha and Thor and now all the Avengers are demanding attention (except Bruce. He's being nice and polite and staying out of this...for now, at least). What the hell. I had an outline. It was beautiful. Goddamn.


	8. Chapter Six

                “You should be celebrating.”

                Thor glanced up with a rueful smile, inclining his head towards Heimdall. The gatekeeper’s eyes were steady on the vast expanses beyond the half-healed Bifrost, and Thor strode slowly to his side. They’d mended the bridge as well as they could so far, but the scars from his and Loki’s fight still glittered in half-seen seams just before the entrance to the unfinished observatory. Progress was being made, of course, but it was slow: their master of magic was missing, and even if his notes had been more legible, they would have suffered in his absence. Few of Loki’s old students had enough raw seidr to execute the magicks described in his notes, and Odin was still recovering from the magic he’d sacrificed to send Thor to Earth three months ago.

                “I will,” Thor promised, “but I had hoped you could tell me of my brother.”

                Heimdall didn’t shift his weight or gaze, but the skin around his amber eyes tightened slightly like he was focusing in on some distant realm. Thor waited. They’d been playing this game for nearly three months now, and each time, he was turned away with some vague dismissal. This time, he was not going to be deterred.

                “Do you remember how he always used to come ask you questions, when we were young? We’d be searching all evening for him only to find him interrogating you. I never understood why he would rather ask you questions than train,” Thor huffed a quiet laugh. “I told him his head would grow too heavy for him to carry with all the things he wanted to learn.”

                Glancing surreptitiously up at Heimdall, Thor found him unmoved. He hadn’t expected much better, but… he had hoped. _Fool_ , a familiar voice scoffed silently.

                “I remember, once when we were but children, he simply vanished,” he continued stubbornly. “Mother was terrified, and I was sure the Frost Giants had come to snatch him up. I spent half the day running about telling everyone that the Jotnar had come to steal their children away and the other half going ‘round apologizing for the panic. Of course, when we finally found him, he was fast asleep beside you. He’d been there all afternoon and had simply fallen asleep. He was so disappointed that he’d fallen asleep before the star had finished, but then when you showed him it – I swear he thought he was in Valhalla.”

                “My prince, you are still young. Go, join the revelers,” Heimdall finally intoned. “I cannot give you what you desire.”

                Thor turned fully to face him, then, hand tightening instinctively on Mjolnir’s handle.

                “Heimdall, please. I will ask nothing more from you for the rest of our lives if you but tell me how my brother fares,” he begged, dropping the pretense that he’d been doing anything else the entire time. “I merely desire to know if he is well, and I will leave you be.”

                “My prince, I cannot,” Heimdall answered, voice short and stressed.

                Drawing up short, Thor stared at him. _Cannot…?_

                “What do you mean?” he demanded.

                Heimdall’s lips tightened, eyes still steady on the faraway horizon.

                “Heimdall, what do you mean that you ‘cannot’ tell me of Loki’s condition?” Thor rumbled, tension crackling like static under his skin.

                In the distance, thunder hummed.

                “Under the decree of Odin Allfather,” Heimdall began, thrumming voice causing shivers to break down Thor’s bare arms, “henceforth shall be banned and punishable by exile: all uses of the traitor Loki’s name or visage and it shall be known that the aforesaid criminal is hereby disowned and discharged from the House of Odin and all houses of Asgard.”

                Silence reigned. Gooseflesh had pebbled his skin, cold seeping up his back like a Jotnar spell, and for a long moment, he didn’t move. _This can’t  – there is no way – surely?_ Lightning broke out at sea, sending ripples of light through the waves. Turning hard on his heel, Thor stalked down the bridge, Mjolnir whipping into a blur at his side. He flung his arm high and shot into the air.

                 _“Disowned and discharged from the House of Odin.” “The traitor Loki.”_ Heimdall’s voice echoed through Thor’s mind, drowning out any coherent thought of his own, save one: _How could he?_ Yes, Loki had committed heinous crimes, but he was Odin’s own son. How could their father abandon him so easily?

                “Thor,” Frigga greeted, voice lilting up in mild surprise.

                Starting, he dropped Mjolnir to his side and surveyed the hall to which he’d come without thinking. His mother’s handmaids were seated about the room’s circular fountain, hands busy with embroidery or weavings, but their gazes flicked from their work to glance at him surreptitiously with unerring regularity. It made sense that he’d come here in his anger, but now that he was here, he was unsure of what to do. Much as he longed to rage about this monstrous slight, he was a prince, and princes did not reveal familial difficulties to the public.

                “Leave us,” Frigga ordered abruptly, voice clear and easily commanding.

                As one, the ladies rose and disappeared out one of the chamber’s side doors, and Frigga turned to Thor, resting a slender hand on his forearm.

                “My son, what troubles you?” she queried, brow furrowed.

                “Father has outlawed the use of Loki’s name and disowned him!” he answered, jaw clenching tight.

                Frigga sighed softly, lips pursing at the corners. Turning, she led him to the bench on which she’d been seated previously. Still quivering with anger and hurt, Thor sat reluctantly beside her.

                “Your father is grieving Loki’s loss,” she started, continuing over Thor’s noise of protest, “but, for all his merits, he has never been skilled at handling grief. The realms are unsettled – Asgard as well. Banishing the person faulted with this assures the realms that the Allfather has not been weakened by his son’s acts.”

                She paused, studying Thor with sad, ancient eyes.

                “It also prevents Odin from being reminded of Loki,” she finished, “and that is something he needs.”

                 “So, for the sake of his pride, we are to forget Loki entirely?” Thor demanded, fists balling tight again. “What next? Will he wipe all trace of Loki from the chronicles now? Abolish his existence until he is only faint memory?”

                He was standing, arms shaking with the tension coursing through them, and rain had begun pouring down over the sunlit city, coursing down its gilded pillars and through open doors. Still seated, Frigga pressed her lips into a line but didn’t avert her eyes. Her gaze held steady and true despite the tumult in her eyes, and he wanted to beg her to make it go away like she had when he was a boy, when he was small enough to hide in the volumes of her skirts and let her take control. He had outgrown that centuries ago, though, and he had no towering figure to guard him now.

                “Perhaps you should visit the library,” she suggested evenly. “It may help you.”

                Concern wrapped chilly fingers around his heart, squeezing as if around a grape. Backing slowly away from his mother, he dove from the balcony with Mjolnir already a singing blur. It was a quick trip to the royal archives, and as he dropped through the loggia leading to the chamber, Mjolnir tugged gently at the familiar wards surrounding it. He could still remember Loki standing in the center of the hall, sleeves pushed up and hair cut short from a summer spent journeying Norns knew where. _“But why must they be so complicated?”_ Thor had complained, watching his brother weave green seidr as deftly as any adult in Asgard. _“Knowledge is our most valuable gift, Thor,”_ Loki had explained, exasperated _. “It deserves to be protected long after my death.”_  

                Now, as he stalked through the doors, dripping from the rain, seidr washed over him and dried the water from his skin and clothes. It was brusque and efficient, the same quick mannerisms Loki had always used apparent in his immortal spellwork. The thought made Thor’s throat clench tight, and he forced his eyes down before they could scan the room for his brother’s familiar figure. There was a reason he didn’t frequent the library.

                He found the modern history section easily enough, fighting down the vague embarrassment that, up until the past year, this had been one of the two sections he visited in the library when he wasn’t looking for Loki. He had never abhorred learning like some of his peers, but he certainly had always preferred a hands-on approach over Loki’s books and writings. When he did decide to read, it was either to read the old sagas or to see how the bards had written the newest ones over his own adventures. Now, though he sought a specific one: the first eda in which he and Loki had starred. They’d been just out of childhood, entering adolescence with fervor and naiveté. Thor had convinced the Warriors Three to accompany him to Muspelheim to defeat the legendary Muspelr serpent – and, as they’d predicted, he’d gotten in over his head. His bare shoulder provided a perfect target for the serpent’s fangs, and the venom had nearly killed him. It was only through Loki’s wiles and determination that an antidote had been found and saved Thor’s life. At the time, Loki had been bashful and cynical about all the attention, but his grins had been contagiously gleeful and proud.

                Flipping through the book, now, though, Thor found sweeping descriptions of his own bravery in taking on the serpent by himself and nothing regarding Loki’s integral assistance. Instead, according to this new revision, Thor overcame the serpent’s poison through his own indomitable spirit. Bristling, he dropped the book on the table beside him before pulling out all the tomes covering their adventures. Each one brushed over or outright ignored Loki’s role, replacing his seidr and loyalty with exaggerations of Thor and his companions’ bravery and skill. Finally, he came to the one most recently penned.

                 _“Loki Laufeyson, bastard child of the dread Jotunn king Laufey, led his compatriots into Asgard’s weapon vault on the morn of Prince Thor’s coronation. When caught by the Allfather, the lie-smith framed Prince Thor, leading him to be banished to Midgard. The lie-smith weaseled his way through the court, casting the Allfather into an impenetrable slumber before opening Asgard’s golden gates to the Jotnar. Aided by his ever-faithful companions, Prince Thor returned and challenged the lie-smith to a duel. Coward as he was, the lie-smith attempted to destroy the Bifrost and kill Thor, but the Thunderer was not so easily beaten. He rose again and smote the lie-smith down. Freed of the villain’s grip, Asgard returned to peace under the careful watch of Odin Allfather and Prince Thor.”_

                His mouth worked uselessly, jaw trembling under the strain of not ripping the book to pieces and striking the entire room down with lightning and rage. It was incomprehensible. Loki was his _brother_. Yes, his affinity for seidr had always been a little odd against Thor’s bulk and aggression, but – but a _jotunn?_ He’d been terrified of them since they were children, far more so than Thor in even his weakest moments. There was a reason the two of them had never ventured to their frozen realm before nine months ago, and it wasn’t just because there had been no overt acts by the Jotnar. It was the one place Thor wouldn’t make his brother go. How could he be one of them?

                “Clever, isn’t it?” a quiet voice behind him asked. “Erase a few words, slide in a few more – in a century or two, all the children will know of Loki Lie-smith will be the wicked Jotnar runt.”

                Turning sharply, Thor fought against the burn of unshed tears in his eyes. A small woman, honey-gold hair braided back into the bun of a woman in mourning, smiled mirthlessly at him in greeting. Though they’d never exchanged words beyond a courtly greeting, he recognized Loki’s favorite student without a thought. Sigyn had been the source of a good amount of drama when she first arrived at court, the hot-headed daughter of the great smith Iwaldi and fiery goddess Freya, and it had caused no small outrage when, rather than picking a suitor for a husband, she had dived headfirst into studying seidr under Loki’s tutelage. Now, though, her thick hair was bundled up and away from her face, her strong frame hidden under the dark blue-grey cloak she wore.

                “They changed the week you returned from Midgard,” she explained.

                “They say-” Thor started, voice breaking. He paused, swallowed hard. “They say he was Laufey’s son. Is that – is it true?”

                His voice was faint and embarrassingly weak, but he didn’t have the energy to waste feeling mortified.

                “Yes,” Sigyn answered simply, lips tightening.

                The breath left him hard, knocking him down into the chair beside him, and he leaned forward, head resting in his hands. _How? How could he-?_ There was the quiet scrape of a chair being pulled out, and he saw through his fingers and the gathering tears as Sigyn’s dark cloak slid into his view.

                “I don’t think he knew,” she offered, quiet. “He hated them so much. Those days you were gone, he wasn’t himself – he was…frightening.”

                “He was terrified of them,” Thor answered, muffled voice choked. “I should never have made him come with us.”

                “He would never have let you go on your own,” Sigyn said.

                “Then I should have listened to him when he told me not to go!” he yelled, lifting his face. “I should have _listened_ for once – when he told me not to go to Jotunheim, when he told me we should leave – I should have listened.”

                His shoulders shook, shuddering like ships caught in stormy weather. Sigyn didn’t look scared, but the pensive way she watched him was too familiar. He stood jerkily, muttered something jumbled about needing air and fled the hall. The rain had only increased, rushing down in cascading torrents, and they lashed at his face like whips as he shot towards the observatory. As if expecting him, Heimdall had shifted out from the unfinished observatory, and Thor set to work on the pieces he understood with a forceful single-mindedness.

                He didn’t think. Didn’t let himself think that his brother, the slight little imp who’d grown into a powerful, proud man, had been betrayed and abandoned in all of a day. Didn’t let himself consider what would have happened had he stayed his tongue and listened to their father’s reprimand rather than yelling back. Didn’t let himself wonder how he missed the meaning behind the angry words Loki had spat out on the bridge.

                Sif found him some hours later, Mjolnir slamming metal into seamless curves along what frame had been finished.

                “You’re drowning us, Thor,” she greeted bluntly, hood pulled over her head. “What’s wrong?”

                Thor barely looked up, continuing to pound the hammer against the metal sheets.

                “How am I to be trusted as king when no one in Asgard can trust me with the barest of information?” he muttered, voice low and seething.

                “What in the nine are you talking about, Thor? Of course we trust you,” Sif huffed, crossing her arms and frowning down at him.

                “You do, do you?” he snapped, wheeling about. “Then why can you not trust me on my brother’s memory? Why can my father not trust me to know the truth about his heritage? Why can no one trust that I know when I love a woman, be she mortal or god? Why, Sif? Where is this trust you pledge?”

                Taken aback, she stiffened.

                “You have ever been blind to Loki’s shortcomings, Thor! Try to deny it!” she spat, pushing into his space. “You have never been able to see anything but what he desired you to. You are guileless and blind to tricksters. _That_ is why we worry over this woman you knew so briefly and made so firm a pledge to. _That_ is why we don’t praise Loki’s memory when he was a liar and murderer.”

                She huffed, leaning back on her heels and glaring at him.

                “I know naught of what you mean by your brother’s heritage,” she finished shortly.

                “I _trust_ him, Sif! It is not foolishness to believe in someone who has ever had your back – not any more than it is to hate a man for what he did as a child,” Thor retorted. “Loki is mischievous, but he is a good man. Just as Jane is good – she would no more bewitch me than Volstagg would fast! You treat me like a child when I would be your king a year ago.”

                “Perhaps we wouldn’t you like a child if you didn’t have temper tantrums like one!” Sif snarled, throwing her arms up. “Pouring rain like a monsoon because you are peeved at us for not trusting you. You are as petty as your darling mortals!”

                “As if you know them!” Thor retorted. “You would think all the realms unworthy for your ignorance.”

                Face cold and hard, Sif paused to glare daggers at him, and through the haze of his anger and grief, Thor cringed at his misstep.

                “Fine,” Sif hissed. “If you regard them so highly, why do you not go join them and leave the rest of us to rot in our _ignorant_ world.”

                Before he could reach out to stop her, she was gone, quick steps bearing her farther and farther from him. Sinking down to the hard, omnicolored bridge, he dropped Mjolnir and rested his forehead against his palms. Perhaps she was right and he should return to Earth. There, perhaps, he would be less useless. _Running away? Hardly like the Thunderer_ , Loki’s voice sneered in the same tone as he’d used on Earth. _Maybe the Thunderer’s ways aren’t what we need_ , he answered, exhausted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is like my quietest of Odin-apologist fics because on the one hand, I hate him. On the other, if you ignore TDW, then you can supply your own characterization to explain his shitty parenting and make him a highly fallible, sympathetic character. Or you can just author-insert how you deal with grief and plug your ears in case anyone points it out.
> 
> *cough*
> 
> No clue which this one is, of course.


	9. Chapter Seven

                The red six flashed stubbornly, vibrant in the dark apartment. Rolling onto her back, Natasha forced it out of her mind. She didn’t owe him an apology. He knew the risks of trusting her. Secrets were inevitable. She wasn’t guilty.

                “Oh for the love of-” she huffed, rolling out of bed and to her feet.

                It was seventeen past four, the city still dark and dozing, and she didn’t turn on any lights as she padded into her kitchenette and flipped on the Keurig. Leaning her lower back against the counter, she sighed and scratched at the side of her thumb absently. What little sleep she’d gotten had been haunted by Loki and Clint in alternating patterns with the faintest flicker of other, older memories dripping red between them. Flickers of a metal arm morphed into a hooked scepter into a familiar black bow, and blue and red painted them all in flashes and fat globs.

                Not for the first time, she was grateful she didn’t need much sleep.

                The Keurig flashed blue, and she slid her mug under the head before pressing the small button. Orange bloomed in the water, diffusing through the entirety of the small mug, and she cupped the chipped cup in both palms while it steeped. She’d scoffed at Clint when he brought the Keurig and cup over as a housewarming gift, apologizing for the crack in the lip of the mug and explaining with a sweeping tale of motorcycle chases and clowns. She’d ended up doubled over, laughing in silent shakes and little gasps.

                That was a year ago.

                Now, her thumb trailed ruminatively over the jagged little gap while she fought against the shadows of dull blue eyes and flickers of green that overlay her cabinets whenever she paused too long in her scans. There was no way Loki’s eyes were changing. It made no sense. Biting back on a frustrated growl, she leaned her head back into the overhead cabinet and tried to think. _He reacts to pain. Wants more. So…what, then?_  She had too little information, too many variables and not enough parameters to limit their possibilities. Taking a sip of her tea, she let the scalding temperature sear out any hint of peach and eyed the shadows of her apartment thoughtfully. _Well, you know how to get the information…_

                Leaving her mostly-full cup sitting on the counter, she tugged on a jacket and headed out the door. SHIELD may have been satisfied with not knowing why their prisoner was silent and docile, but that didn’t mean she had to be. It was quick work to slip into an express elevator and drop towards SB-9. As the country’s main intelligence apparatus, SHIELD never slept, but its night employees were mostly desk jockeys and scientists who’d gotten too caught up in their research to remember their bodies’ basic needs. They wouldn’t get in her way.

                She paused briefly to fetch the scalpel she’d used the day before and then headed straight to Loki’s cell. He was sitting in the same exact position as she’d left him, bare forearms partially extended on the metal table and no affect on his gaunt face. Dropping her chair down beside him, she settled in and immediately set about cutting neat, precise lines into his wrist. They were shallow, just enough to sting, and perpendicular to his prominent tendons and veins. They still bled.

                After three, he gave a harsh, wet breath, arm jerking a little under her ministrations.

                “Good,” she remarked. “Now, talk.”

                “Don’t stop,” he breathed out in a jumbled rush, green eyes wide and frighteningly young in his pale face. “Please, don’t stop. I need you to – to not stop.”

                “Why?” she demanded, slicing another red line into his bare arm.

                “Can’t – I can’t – he’ll stop me if – if you do,” he panted out like each word weighed a hundred tons.

                His shoulders had crumpled forward a little, chest heaving like a marathoner’s as he paused to catch a breath.

                “Who’s ‘he’?” Natasha asked, scalpel sliding a little too close to the previous cut. She ignored it.

                Loki’s breathing picked up again, harsh and rapid as muscles worked in his jaw.

                “I _can’t_ ,” he grit out. “He’ll – he’ll make me go back. I can’t – I can’t go back.”

                His eyes were clearly green now, wide and bright with unshed tears, and Natasha wondered with a jolt if he had any idea how much emotion he was showing. He’d been constantly in control throughout New York, but his face now was open and broken. Terror etched fine lines in the tremors of his jaw and the vividness of his eyes, and he seemed to shrink before her, from an ageless deity to a terrified kid who’d jumped in before checking the water’s depth.

                “Go back where? To Asgard?” she prompted. “Loki, who is he?”

                “You don’t listen, do you?” he demanded weakly. “I can’t go back. I can’t.”

                “Why not?” she snapped, digging the scalpel tip straight down. “Is he going to kill you?”

                A jerky laugh broke out of his throat and he shook his head unsteadily.

                “Nothing so kind as that,” he breathed, eyes wide and empty. Needle-tipped toes skittered down Natasha’s back. “You’ll never – they won’t believe. He isn’t – he isn’t supposed to be real.”

                “Who is it?” Natasha barked.

                She’d swung the scalpel down, driving it straight through Loki’s forearm, and she trembled faintly, staring at the hand she hadn’t realized she’d moved. Loki, however, was focused fully on her. As she looked up, she could see blue crawling tide-like across his eyes.

                “Thanos,” he said.

                The blue covered him, eyes dull and empty again.

                “No, dammit,” she spat. “You don’t get to go like that. Who is Thanos? Answer me!”

                He didn’t respond, didn’t even flinch as the scalpel dug deeper into his arm, as blood flecked the table like overspray, as two agents rushed in and dragged Natasha out. They left her in medical, unrestrained, but took the scalpel. Within moments, Clint had slipped in cautiously. _No_ , she thought stubbornly. _Not now. Don’t you dare start._ He didn’t speak at first, just dropped down onto the bed beside her.

                “Y’know how Phil spent a good week lurking over Rogers’ bedside when he first got defrosted?” he started eventually. “I was giving him shit about it – y’know, haunting a national icon and all that – and he just turned around and asked where I’d been the first year you were at SHIELD. Kinda’ killed my argument.”

                He paused, resting his elbows on his thighs and leaning forward to leave his back open and exposed.

                “I guess I kinda’ screwed up recently. Haven’t been looking after you so well,” he admitted, glancing over at her. “I don’t know what you told Loki on the helicarrier – I don’t – it’s none of my business. But whatever it was, it had to be big. And – just, it’s okay to not be okay. You know?”

                He hesitated again, side-eyeing her with a heavy pinch in his brow.

                “Just ‘cause you can brush off bullets and all that – you’re still human,” he continued. “Don’t forget that, okay?”

                Shifting so that her weight leaned into his side, Natasha simply let his body heat sink in through her shirt and yoga pants. Clint was a near-constant disaster, but somehow, he always ended up being the one constant in her life whether because he was in her way or at her side. Eventually, she lifted her hand and began signing.

                _There’s something wrong. I don’t know what it is, but he isn’t –_ she broke off, biting her lip in frustration – _it’s like he’s being kept in his own mind unless he’s in pain. It doesn’t make sense._

                Beside her, Clint had stiffened, jaw locking, and she felt a brief hint of guilt before he lifted his own hands.

                _Split personality?_ he offered. _Did he tell you anything?_

Natasha rolled her eyes, shooting him a half-hearted glare.

                _Not really. He was scared – said someone called T-H-A-N-O-S was going to ‘make him go back’ but he wouldn’t say where or what they’d do to him._

Clint swallowed, gaze sliding down and away from her, and Natasha watched carefully.  The psych evals she’d managed to get ahold of had all been marked unready for active duty, but SHIELD had never paid the closest attention to their psychologists when it came to their top agents.

                _Clint, why aren’t you in the field yet?_

                He flinched, jaw rictus tight. She waited.

                Finally, haltingly: _I still – it’s not – I can still feel it sometimes. Like we never really got out. I can’t risk other agents like that. I can’t._

His hands were shaking, fine tremors running through them like microshocks, and he kept his gaze forcefully down. Hesitating a moment, Natasha reached out and covered them with her own.

                “Please don’t go back, Tasha,” he asked after a minute or two, voice quiet and beseeching. “We’re not meant to take on gods – just let this go and take care of yourself. Please.”

                She leaned in, biting back the worry and fear that rippled off of him and into her. Pressing a dry kiss to his temple, she lingered a moment.

                “Get some rest, Clint,” she murmured before standing and leaving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could've sworn there was another interlude in between these but whatever. If you have any questions, please feel free to ask! I love to hear back from you guys.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for reading! It means a ton to me.


	10. Interlude II

                Fire burns blue through its edges, sparking in the fathomless blackness. There’s a voice somewhere out there, screaming. No words come from the voice, only intermittent screeches and wails as if chanting to an eldritch tune. It wishes the voice would stop; the grating, searing sound is frightening against the soothing blue-black of its surroundings.

                “Shh,” the old voice, the one that rumbles of planets grinding together till dust rains down, soothes as razor edges run down its sides. “You are safe here, godling.”

                It nestles back, closer to the familiar knives and pain. It is safe here. The pain is only a tax, a needed payment for the safety and security of the old voice’s realm. It is safer to pay this small fee than follow after that shrieking song. Still, like a siren’s lure, the sound pulls it, pulls it, pulls –

                “No,” the old voice warns and the knives press harder. “You are mine, little one. You stay.”

                So it stays and the knives cut and the voice screams and screams and screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found it!


	11. Chapter Eight

                Light strobed beneath Thor’s boots, pulsing across the bridge like a warning with each step he took. Mjolnir hung at his belt, hands free and empty at his sides. Heimdall was expecting him, he knew. This time, however, he had a plan, and with that came freedom. He didn’t know if it was the best, but it was there and that was enough. He would go to Midgard, find Loki, and take him some place safe. He would shower love on his brother until Loki knew it to be true and found himself again. If it took a century, a millennium, a lifetime, he would do it.

                “Gatekeeper, take me to Midgard,” he ordered.

                Heimdall watched him, unmoving. Thor stared back, undeterred by the all-seeing depths of his gold-edged eyes. He would not be shaken.

                “There are no crises on Midgard, Thunderer,” Heimdall responded. “They have not called on your pledge.”

                “A far older vow is being pulled,” Thor answered bluntly. “I will not be dissuaded, Heimdall. I go to Midgard whether I must steal Gungnir and do so by my own tactics or if you will make it easier for all of us and take me instead.”

                There was silence for a long moment further as Heimdall’s cold eyes studied Thor impassively. Finally, turning, he lifted his blade to slot it into the observatory’s dais. Of all the chamber, only this was fully finished, but that didn’t prevent it from working.

                “What would you have me tell the Allfather and Allmother of your absence?” he inquired as Thor readied himself directly ahead of the dais.

                “Tell them that if they would have me return, they will have to bring my brother, too,” Thor answered before being sucked forward.

                Light rushed around him in omnicolored streaks, burning past his face without touching.

                _Only a few months before his would-be coronation, he’d found Loki sitting out on the bridge. He was far from the observatory, distant gaze directed somewhere past the end of the bridge and legs hanging off into thin air. Thor had heard the echoes of Loki and their father arguing earlier, heated and sharp, and Loki had vanished for hours afterwards._

_“There you are, brother! I’ve looked everywhere for you,” Thor had huffed, arms thrown out. “Where have you been?”_

_Loki hadn’t glanced up, had kept his focus far off towards the vast void around them._

_“I’ve been here, Thor,” he’d answered simply._

_Accepting that answer, he’d glanced around dubiously. There had seemed nothing to either see or do here._

_“Doing what?” he’d demanded._

_“I forget,” Loki had started, pausing to clear his throat, “how beautiful it is, sometimes. Funny, how something so incredible can be taken for granted.”_

_Thor had paused, studying the light refracted and reflected within the mile-long bridge._

_“Indeed it is,” he’d agreed, and they’d stood and sat for a few long minutes, studying the bridge and the stars respectively._

_Eventually, though, Loki had risen with the fluid grace that Thor had envied throughout their childhood and quirked a brow._

_“Well, what is it you need?” he’d queried, pulling himself from his reverie._

_“The tailor!” Thor had boomed, remembering his original purpose. “I must decide on my coronation garb.”_

_“What’s wrong with your armor?” Loki had asked as they turned back down the bridge._

_Thor had scoffed, socking his brother just hard enough to knock him a little to the side. It always amused him how slight Loki was compared to his own strength._

_“I am to be crowned king, Loki! I cannot wear my old garb,” he had laughed._

                Gritting his teeth, Thor pushed the memory away and focused on the rapidly approaching ground. He braced himself and landed on his knee and fist, right arm braced on his upraised knee. Ironman’s tower lay below him, the roof dented but sound after Thor’s landing. Standing, he brushed the dust from his knees and surveyed the city around him. It was much as it had been when last he saw it, but the buildings were on the mend; tall metal structures stood scattered amongst the towers and buildings, scaffolding climbing up their sides. His hand tightened around Mjolnir’s handle, and he forced himself not to look for the places he remembered fighting hand-to-hand against his brother.  He would find him.

                “Hey big guy,” Tony Stark called from an open doorway across the roof. “Didn’t get your RVSP.”

                He stalked forward across the roof, Mjolnir held firmly in his hand. He wouldn’t harm his brother-in-arms, but he wasn’t here for small talk.

                “Where is Loki?” he demanded.

                Stark was fully garbed in his metal suit with only the helmet visor flipped open, and he raised his hands palm-out.

                “Whoa there,” he chided. “No clue what you’re talking about, buddy. Tall, Dark, and Crazy is not my business anymore.”

                Thor twirled Mjolnir once, a tick he’d never quite dropped.

                “I am not here for idle chatter, Stark,” he warned. “I will be taken to my brother.”

                “Can’t help you, Point Break,” Stark answered, visor snapping down over his face and palms glowing blue. “Now back up and calm down or I’ll do it myself.”

                “I do not wish to fight,” Thor attempted, though his grip on Mjolnir only tightened. “I am only here for my brother.”

                Stark nodded, repulsors brightening.

                “Sure y’are,” he agreed noncommittally.

                Thor had only a breath’s warning before man-made lightning shot forth. _If that is what you wish,_ he thought in a growl. Whipping Mjolnir ‘round, he barreled forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And we are now caught up with where I'm writing again. Shit.


	12. Chapter Nine

                “Well, this seems familiar,” Rogers muttered, slinging his shield over his shoulder.

                Natasha glanced over her shoulder in surprise, not having heard him come on. Catching his eye, she offered a quick quirk of her lips in greeting.

                “At least they’re not in a national park this time,” she offered.

                “Yeah, just the biggest city in the states,” he rejoined, sitting back on the bench seat beside her.

                The rest of the STRIKE team was antsy and on edge, completely unprepared for dealing with a god and Tony Stark duking it out in the Big Apple. Natasha hadn’t seen him since June, but she tended to keep up with SHIELD’s internal memos; he’d fallen into leading the STRIKE team as easily as he had the Avengers it seemed. Watching him now, though, she wondered at the tired weight in his pale eyes and the tense line of his mouth.

                “I’ll take Thor if you can handle Stark,” he suggested quietly as they neared Stark Tower before raising his voice, “STRIKE team, you’re on standby till we’ve got ‘em calmed down.”

                He stood as the jet started dropping, tugging his shield free from its straps and sliding it onto his forearm. Bites charged on her wrists, Natasha stood as well, preparing for the drop. Rogers jumped first, shield tucked up against his side as Mjolnir swung straight towards it, and then Natasha leapt. Rolling across the roof, she pushed off the ground with her feet and lunged straight for Stark.

                One EMP and several dozen curses later, Stark had his visor flipped up and Thor had looped Mjolnir onto his belt. Steve was still standing over by him, talking him down while Natasha dealt with Stark. Standing in a half-functional suit, he was less than cooperative.

                “You don’t always have to go around breaking my stuff,” Stark griped. “You could just drop by and say hello.”

                “Just tell me what happened, Stark,” Natasha snapped.

                She still felt brittle, like shattered glass with all edges pointed out, and his abrasiveness wasn’t helping anything. His mouth twisted as if to spit out some snappy retort, but something in her gaze must have dissuaded it; he swallowed and gave up.

                “Okay, okay,” he relented. “Christ, someone’s having a bad day.”

                _You have no fucking clue_ , she thought bitterly.

                “Point Break over there landed on the roof, JARVIS let me know, I came up to see what he was doing here again, he started talking nonsense and then charged,” Stark rattled off. “Think he might want to look into a better way to travel than the Rainbow Bridge – clearly not good for mental stability.”

                “What kind of ‘nonsense’?” Natasha demanded.

                “Asking all about Loki,” Stark answered. “Kept saying he was ‘only here for his brother’ and shit like that.”

                His imitation of Thor’s deep voice fell dramatically short, but that didn’t stop the chills skittering up and down Natasha’s covered arms.

                “What did you tell him?” she demanded.

                “Oh, I don’t know. That, oh, yeah, I’d forgotten to mention I was keeping Tall, Dark and Crazy in my fucking basement,” Stark snapped, exasperated. “What the hell do you think?”

                Biting down on the tension sparking up under her skin like bare wires in water, she nodded tersely.

                “You’re dismissed,” she declared, turning back towards the quinjet.

                The STRIKE team was loitering just within, clearly eyeing the metahumans on the rooftop warily, but Natasha didn’t get close enough to order them inside before Tony was calling to her.

                “That’s it? What was I supposed to say?” he complained.

                “Not everyone is here to make you feel important, Stark,” Natasha retorted over her shoulder, her strides keeping their steady tempo.

                “Yeesh. Someone’s a lot less pissy with shawarma,” he muttered, undoubtedly low enough he didn’t think she could hear.

                Anger twitched in her jaw like a finger on a trigger, and she stamped down painfully hard on it. Clint might have been right about her needing some time to calm down, but she wasn’t one of this century’s most successful operatives because she couldn’t mask her emotions. She strangled that anger and shoved it aside, heading straight for the jet.

                That death was short-lived, however.

                “I don’t know, Thor,” Rogers was admitting as she stalked past. “Maybe SHIELD would know? You probably oughta’ come in anyway.”

                A few four letter words shot up in flames on the back of her tongue. Skirting both of them, she chose a seat with the entire STRIKE team between her and them. If either noticed, they didn’t comment on it, but she wasn’t blind to the looks Rogers tossed her way when he thought she wasn’t looking. The ride was mostly silent, STRIKE tense and eyeing Thor like he might start swinging his hammer at any minute, and the two other men conversing in low tones when they said anything at all.

                Fury greeted them at the base, and Rogers followed both him and Thor, glancing back at Natasha over his shoulder as they went. She waited till their footsteps had faded from hearing, then bolted. It was child’s play to duck past the security and down to the subbasement: she knew this ventilation system nearly as intimately as her own body, and relatively few security officers thought to check if anyone was infiltrating them, even after the helicarrier.

                Loki was mostly as she’d left him, though his clothes had changed. The blood splatter was gone, disappeared from stark white cloth. A shame: it’d at least given him some color. She sat down across from him, narrowing her eyes in an effort to study his own more closely.

                “Thor’s here,” she announced, testing. “He’s looking for you.”

                Was that a flicker? Or just the play of fluorescent lighting over half-shadowed irises? Could he even hear her?

                “I’m going to figure this out,” she hissed, leaning in close. “You aren’t that mysterious, Loki.”

                No response. Her teeth dug into each other, and she pushed off the table hard. He didn’t move as she stalked towards the door, pausing once to glance back. He stared straight ahead.

                Upstairs, Thor, Stark, and Rogers were sitting in various poses around a conference table. Thor sat firmly but easily, like his very presence made the cracked pleather and faux-wood a throne; Stark had commandeered three chairs, one for his ass, one for his feet, and another for the briefcase that undoubtedly contained his suit; Rogers perched, back military-straight and weight in the balls of his feet, on the very edge of his chair.

                “It’s not like I don’t have the room,” Stark was saying, gesturing absently with one hand while flicking through his phone. “I mean, it’s not Versailles, but it’s a hell of a lot creepy – all those mirrors, y’know? No clue how anyone slept in there. Little Bloody Mary for me. Not that you can’t have all the mirrors you want: screens are totally adaptable. Just have to ask Jarv and he’ll deal with it for you. So-”

                “Natasha,” Rogers greeted, catching onto her name like a drowning man spotting a ship’s rope. “We were just talking about getting something to eat. You want to come?”

                “Busy,” she immediately rejected before catching herself, “but I might swing by later. You should ask Clint. I’m sure he’d like the company.”

                There was a bit of polite discontentment but nothing that really stopped her. Still, as she left, she couldn’t shake the feeling of eyes on the back of her neck. Whether they were Stark’s or Rogers or some that couldn’t be there, she couldn’t say.

                After a stop at the grocer cut short when she realized she was doing perimeter scans every thirty seconds, she reached her apartment. There, she let herself walk the walls, fingers sliding under edges and along trim for bugs in a way she hadn’t bothered with for months.  Clint had caught her more than a few times in the middle of this check, but he hadn’t objected; instead, he’d helped her out and turned up his fair share of SHIELD-issue recording devices. He’d brought them to her like sacrifices at an altar and she’d crushed them before offering him tea.

                Shaking away the thought, she finished and headed towards the bathroom for a shower. She could still feel the pricking fingers of paranoia and restlessness crawling down her spine and arms, and she cranked the temperature to scalding before stepping under the burning spray. Each speck of skin hit by the stream flared scarlet, just below burning. It was easy, when her entire body was going numb from the overload of temperature and global pressure, to block out her thoughts and slide in a smooth white slate over top them.

                It was less easy when she finally curled fetal in her bed and sleep ripped down that wall with brutal efficacy. Knives slid like glass shards under her skin, pressed in by gentle calloused hands overshown with too-bright eyes.

                “Thanos,” he whispered, crooked lips pulled into a smug grin. “Thanos.”

                It wasn’t – it wasn’t him. Couldn’t be – Clint would never – he grinned. Cold metal fingers closed around her throat, a knife tickling at the exposed skin of her jaw. _No no no no no it can’t – you can’t –_ Clint laughed, a quiet huff of breath that tickled at the sensitive skin by her ear; those burning blue eyes were clear in her periphery, bright and stark in the writhing black. _Thanos, Thanos, Thanos_ – it hummed through the darkness, pulsing with each drop of blood they eased out of her skin. She couldn’t scream, couldn’t make a sound – they slit and cut in silence, only the purr of the name to guide their movements.

                _Thanos Thanos Thanos Thanos –_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so incredibly terrible at fight scenes/nightmares. Sorry


	13. Chapter Ten

                Thunder woke her, breath coming in sharp, shuddery gasps in time with the low rumbles shaking through the city. It wasn’t raining, just brooding heavily overhead, but she still curled tight in her too-large sweatshirt, appropriated from Clint’s room three days after she was released from the SHIELD holding cell they’d first kept her in. It was hours before she finally pushed herself to reach out and pick up her cell. She watched for lightning as the phone rang.

                “’lo?” Clint greeted, voice groggy and sleep-slurred.

                “Hey,” Natasha answered.

                “Tasha?” he mumbled, the last syllable disappearing into a whiny yawn. “Whatcha’ need?”

                “What are you doing?” she asked, tightening the cocoon of blankets around her shoulders as a particularly vicious roll of thunder broke.

                “Uh. I was sleeping. Stark’s got great couches, y’know? And like, a million floors. He’s got a floor for each of us. Is that creepy? It seems kinda’ creepy. But…nice creepy,” he rambled before another yawn broke him off.

                “You’re at Stark’s?” she asked, choosing to sidestep that last bit of information.

                “Yeah,” he affirmed. “All came over here last night. Why?”

                She hesitated, fiddling with the edge of the blanket stretched tightest to her chest.

                “Thought I might swing by, say hi,” she answered.

                He was quiet for a long moment, and she wondered briefly if he’d fallen back asleep.

                “Y’alright, Tash?” he asked eventually, though.

                “Yeah,” she lied. “I just felt bad skipping out on you guys last night.”

                He scoffed, the huff of breath barely audible but perfectly clear. Her lips twitched down in amusement, fingers pausing in their fussing.

                “Yeah, missed a whole lot. Like, ten pizzas,” he answered drily. “See ya’ when you get here?”

                “Of course,” she answered easily, hanging up.

                Pulling herself out of the nest she’d crafted on her mattress, she sifted through her small collection of clothes to find the cheeriest she had. They weren’t much different than her usual: an olive green v-neck rather than black, blue jeans instead of grey. She shook out her hair and ran a half-relaxed hand through it before pulling on a jacket and boots. They weren’t as durable as her combat boots, but the style was similar, and they’d let her run if she needed to.

                The lobby was open, of course, and it only took a few moments of well-placed smiles and doe-eyed chatter for the receptionist to allow her up to the upper levels. Asking after the girl’s fiancé didn’t hurt, of course. Lacey had always had a soft spot for Natalie Rushman, and that didn’t completely end when her name tilted towards Russia. Upstairs, Clint was still half-sprawled across a couch, Thor leaning back in an armchair and staring pensively out the window at the looming grey clouds. Neither Rogers nor Stark were anywhere to be seen.

                “What a party,” she deadpanned, leaning over the back of the couch.

                Clint shrugged and grinned half-heartedly at her, and Thor barely twitched.

                “Good morning, Ms. Romanoff,” JARVIS greeted, British voice polite and curt. “Sir wishes me to inform you of the leftover pizza and beer in the fridge. He also offered vodka if you were, I quote, ‘missing Mother Russia.’”

                “Thanks, JARVIS,” Natasha answered, shedding her jacket and laying it neatly on a side table, “but it’s four o’clock. I’ll save it for later.”

                “As you wish,” the AI replied primly.

                Sliding into the space Clint wasn’t taking up on the couch, Natasha leaned back and smiled warmly at Thor.

                “So, I didn’t get a chance to talk to you yesterday, Thor,” she started, voice lighthearted and friendly. “What’re you doing here?”

                His gaze, when he turned it to her, was heavy and old, the weight of a thousand years of rain bearing down on her. It shifted slightly to the left though, and the pressure eased.

                “I have sworn to protect this realm,” he answered, clearly reciting some turn of phrase. “It seems difficult to do so without having some understanding of it first.”

                Clint was dozing off, his bare feet pressed firmly into her thigh, but he still managed to mumble something that sounded like ‘good luck.’

                “You don’t have a Midgard Studies class back in Asgard?” Natasha teased.

                She regretted saying it the instant those ancient eyes settled on her again. By all outward appearances, he was no more than thirty, but those eyes bore the same ageless heft of his brother’s. She wasn’t keen on having either focused on her for too long.

                “I prefer to learn through experience,” Thor answered simply and solemnly.

                He hesitated a moment, indecision pulling his gaze from her face and through the coffee table.

                “I have also…heard ill news of my brother,” he admitted. _Aha!_ “I wished to ascertain his safety.”

                “Haven’t heard of any more mind-control, so he can’t be doing much,” she remarked easily, ignoring the way Clint’s body gave a microscopic seize.

                Thor’s lips pressed together, eyes narrowing as though he could will his brother into their presence if he only glared hard enough at the table.

                “Forceful control of another has never been Loki’s wont,” he offered after a moment, “but I was more concerned of his own welfare.”

                Still faking sleep, Clint’s jaw ticked. Natasha reached an absent hand to press gently into the meat of his foot where it peeked over her leg.

                “What do you mean? He seemed pretty used to it last time,” she prodded.

                This time, Thor’s gaze was edging towards suspicion, but he still didn’t broach it. She wasn’t worried; SHIELD always wanted more information, and there was no way for him to prove she wasn’t asking on their behalf.

                “Loki has always been fond of mischief with a lesson,” Thor explained slowly, picking his words carefully. “Destruction and chaos are inevitably, but never with such abandon. He does not needle without a purpose.”

                As she opened her mouth to reply, Natasha was cut off by Tony entering and dropping a half-formed gadget on the coffee table.

                “As much as I love hearing about our favorite bag o’ crazy, I really don’t,” he announced. “Let’s go out. Introduce Thor to the best of New York. I’m sure there are a few clubs that haven’t blacklisted me.”

                Thor’s hand tensed, twitching towards a fist before he clearly, consciously, flexed it and nodded terse affirmation. Clint stood drowsily, eyed his t-shirt and jeans dubiously before asking what type of dress code they’d be looking for. In minutes, they were being shuttled off to what Tony carelessly referred to as ‘their’ floors. With the elevator closing behind her, Natasha stood still and surveyed what she could see of the apartment. It was…sparse, bare without being cold. Light grey walls were trimmed with white, the furniture modern and minimalist but soft when she brushed a hand over their untouched suede. She swallowed hard and turned to the bedroom that looked more like a home than her own.


	14. Interlude III

                Far-off thunder. The scent of a storm.

                It trembles, reaching out for the familiar sting of lightning and rain. It’s – it’s too far away. It should be by the storm’s side, nestled right beneath its eye.

                Ice stabs through its wrists, cracking through the bone and pinning it. The thunder shifts farther away. _Stop, stop, please_ , it begs. _Come back._

                Black drowns it once more, but a breath of ozone lingers in the opaque air. He’s close. A word, familiar and foreign, whispers in its mind.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I realized I forgot this chapter. Oops


	15. Chapter Eleven

            The bar to which Stark took them was crowded, bodies pressed flush and inseparable with one another, and the music pounded like war-drums around the too-close walls. Gritting his teeth, Thor turned his back on the strobe-lit mob and stared down into the small glass cupped by his broad palm. It was tiny, fragile, certainly lacking the warding that Asgard’s finer dishes contained to prevent breakage. Midgardian ware was not meant for his rough hands.

            He had once frequented establishments such as these with clear intentions. A bar fight or a bar wench, it didn’t matter: he’d be satisfied with either for entertainment. Now, though, the clench of his fist reminded him of Loki’s blade between his ribs. The coquettish glances of a slender brunette reminded him of Jane’s wide smile. Each brought its own hollow clench under the bony cage of his ribs. Stark’s entertainment may have been sufficient for pleasing himself, but it did little to erase Thor’s concerns. The Captain had declined their offer to join them, and while Thor understood, he deeply wished he had chosen otherwise; of all the mortals, only the Captain seemed to understand both the wariness of the fragility of Midgard and the spine-deep loneliness of being in this realm. Thor had sworn to protect this realm, and he would not break his vow, but he was not used to completing his duties without at least L- at least one of his friends by his side. These Avengers were worthy shield-brethren, but their presence was not so comforting as that of those he had known since infancy.

            “Hey, big guy,” Barton greeted, dropping onto the padded stool beside Thor. “Whatcha’ drinking?”

            “I believe it is called a Sea Breeze,” Thor answered dutifully, adding as lightly as he could, “though I do not see the similarities.”

            As expected, Barton laughed and started to explain the name before pausing and giving up.

            “Yeah,” he agreed. “Pretty shit name. Should be like Russian Sourpatch or somethin’.”

            Thor smiled easily and nodded, dismissing the name. He didn’t recognize the reference, and it was easy enough to play into their expectations of a brute fool. He had perfected the role long before he even realized he was playing it.

            “So, uh – how’s Asgard?” Barton attempted, choking on a sip of his own beverage.

            Thor patted him carefully on the pack, light as he would a babe. Barton still coughed.

            “Asgard is well,” Thor answered simply. “The Bifrost is nearly whole, though progress is slow. It will be good to have it healed once more.”

            “That’s the bridge, right? The glassy one that L- that you use to uh travel?” Barton queried, voice catching on a word that he left loud and unsaid.

            Thor’s eyes narrowed curiously at the slip, but he let it pass by. Barton was clearly enough ill at ease.

            “Yes,” Thor agreed, sipping absently at his bitter cocktail. “It is a vein of Yggdrasil. Without it, we are an island in the void – a dangerous one when you have displeased the Lady Sif.”

            He added it carefully, crafted with enough humor to lighten Barton’s misstep. The archer laughed, angling his body to face Thor more fully.

            “What you do to her?” he asked, lips quirked up in a curious grin.

            “I may have insulted her abilities,” Thor conceded vaguely.

            To his surprise, his careful omission of details didn’t prevent Barton’s huff of breath and quirked eyebrows.

            “Yeah, they don’t like that, do they?” he muttered, gaze pinpointing Romanoff across the club without a moment’s work.

            “You have done likewise recently?” Thor prompted, intrigued.

            The two had shown the same easy camaraderie this afternoon as they had following the battle three months ago. Any tension in their relationship had been invisible, even if Thor was beginning to realize how easily he saw only what others wished him to.

            “Yeah,” Barton affirmed.

            He didn’t elaborate, just watched the redhead rock against another woman’s body in time to the pulsing music. Thor watched carefully, trying to find those tells Loki had always spotted without trying, but he could see no jealousy in Barton’s expression – only a faint, regretful whist. On a whim, he lifted his dainty glass and tipped it towards Barton.

            “To those we love,” he declared, “and their ability to forgive our missteps.”

            Barton’s lips twisted into a close approximation of a smile, and he inclined his head as he tapped their glasses together.

            “I’ll drink to that,” he agreed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really don't know why it's taken me so long to upload this chapter; it's been done since before I uploaded the last one. Sorry about that - and about its brevity.


	16. Chapter Twelve

             “Hello, is this the line for Sexy, Homicidal Russians? Yes, I’d like one red-head delivered to Stark Tower ASAP.”

             Natasha grit her teeth, pushing fluidly into a handstand and glaring at the phone lying beside her on speakerphone.

             “What do you need, Stark?” she demanded, letting her legs drape down into a back bend. “I’m busy.”

             It wasn’t entirely a lie, even if her ‘busy’ mostly meant yoga and research.

             “Your boy’s driving Thor nuts. Won’t stop needling him and jabbering,” Stark explained honestly. “Driving me nuts, too, but I can go to the lab. Thor’s a little more likely to just fling ‘im out the window.”

             She…could see that. Clint might have been pretty well inside his head recently, but he wasn’t naturally a reticent person; she had no doubt that Thor’s own loud nature would only accentuate that.

             “I’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” she answered, pressing the ‘end call’ button with a big toe.

             It took her five minutes to finish up, and then she was cutting through the New York crowds like a shark through minnows. Even New Yorkers, for all their bluster and bravado, didn’t stand in the way of a woman who’d painted murder in her eyes. They slid to the side, parting water-like before her, and she stalked through them with her hands tucked into the pockets of her pea coat and gaze straight out of her hood. It was raining again, a cold drizzle that seemed determined to soak through her wool coat and to her skin, and she couldn’t help a quiet, snide thought regarding the meteorologists she’d listened to early in the week. This was hardly the Indian summer they’d guaranteed.

             The Tower was bustling, employees flooding in after lunch, and she was swept anonymously into the crowd. Separating enough to get into one of the express lifts that headed towards the residential floors was more difficult, but she managed it. Once inside the lift, she takes a surreptitious scan of the interior before settling in for the brief ride straight up.

             “JARVIS, what’s Clint up to?” she asked mildly.

             There was no reply.

             Stark hadn’t been pleased when he discovered who she was, of course, but she would be surprised if he actually locked her out of the AI. Surely he’d figured by now that she could wire herself in if she really wanted; Stark had hardly been the only thing she’d been paying attention to when she was stationed here.

             Her fingers tightened on the bites tucked into her pockets.

             The doors opened to the commons floor, and she barely had to look to spot Clint and Thor – jostling each other on the couch as they cheated at Mario Kart. Her lips parted slightly, fear twisting in like screws.

             “Hey there, glad you could make it, JARVIS to the lab, a’right? Great,” Stark spouted off, rolling into the elevator as the doors closed on Natasha’s confusion.

             He was jittery, chattering to the AI with nervous haste, and she settled back with her temper cooling into something harder and sharper than ice. In the two minute drop, he debated the merits of an all-in-one kitchen super-appliance and a self-driving hover car, made three appointments, and dictated two emails. When the doors finally reopened to a lower-level lab, it was to both of their evident relief.

             “Before you cut out my spleen with your stilettos or something,” Stark placated immediately, palms up, “I’m here as an ally.”

             “Allies don’t usually trick each other,” she answered coolly.

             He dropped his hands and raised an eyebrow at that before shuffling around to a table with a half-assembled suit torso laid out on it. His hands traded off between fiddling with the armor and gesturing.

             “Look, something’s up. You and Barton – you’re hiding something,” he started. “You’re spies, you do that. But you’re both acting spooked, so whatever it is, it’s big. And I get it, you guys handle shit all the time. ‘nother day in the office. Thing is, you’ve got a team, now. And whatever’s scaring you, we’re here to help. If you don’t trust me, fine, I get it. Not a big deal. But talk to someone – hell, Rogers is SHIELD, isn’t he? And Thor – well, I don’t know how much help he’ll be, but he seems like he’d do whatever you needed. More or less. But uh – yeah, you’ve got a team. So, just, use it.”

             He cut off abruptly, both hands falling to their work on the left shoulder of the suit, and to any casual observer, he looked to have gotten distracted by his work. His jaw was tense, though, and there wasn’t any of the usual badinage between him and JARVIS. Natasha swallowed, weighing her options.

             “SHIELD has Loki in custody,” she began, watching his reaction carefully. “He’s been mostly catatonic since June.”

             “So?” Stark prompted. “Where’s the catch? Big Bad’s out cold.”

             “It’s not – something else is doing it to him, and whoever it is, they – they _terrify_ him,” she explained, biting the inside of her lip absently. “

             His hands slowed, brow furrowing.

             “I thought you said he was catatonic,” he objected.

             “I was assigned to find out why he wasn’t eating,” she replied, “and he responds to certain methods.”

             “Torture,” Stark surmised before freezing, face contorting. “Oh god, you aren’t fucking him, are you? Jesus, that’s just. Not even SHIELD would – right? Please say I’m right. Actually, if I’m wrong, don’t tell me.”

             She waited while he held up a hand, gazing somewhere into the middle distance with disgust writ plain on his features.

             “I will never get that image out of my mind,” he muttered finally. “God.”

             “Pain,” she corrected. “He responds to pain – sometimes.”

             His jaw ticked again, an unconscious tell she probably should warn him about later. He was a decent liar, but any decent operative would notice that tic.

             “So, what?” he asked, fidgeting with his armor once more. “What does that even mean?”

             “I don’t know,” Natasha admitted finally. “Thor said Loki can’t normally use mind-control, so it could be that someone else is using him as – as a sort of weapon or extension or something. Or he’s just insane.”

             Stark chuffed a short, brittle laugh at that addendum.

             “Or he could just be playing you,” he agreed.

             She nodded, conceding that point no matter her disagreement with it. Her judgment wasn’t the clearest right now, even if she was loath to admit it. Stark finally put down his armor and turned towards her with arms crossed over his chest.

             “We need more information,” he declared. “Not that there’s a lot of research out there on mind-control of extraterrestrial gods, of course.”

             “Myth?” Natasha suggested, already moving towards a free computer.

             “Yeah, you start with that,” he agreed. “I’ll see if there’s anything from the last century.”

             She hesitated, fingers pausing in their tapping. The Red Room – none of that was known or available, but she knew it. She could write pages on their processes. If anyone should be in charge of that line of research…

             But she didn’t say anything, and he didn’t mention it.

             It was easy to find catalogues of lore and myth regarding the entire echelons of Norse gods as well as Loki himself. Narrowing them down into what was useful and what was not – that was another story. After scanning through most of a book’s worth of them, Natasha leaned back with a sigh.

             “Do you think Thor actually sewed Loki’s lips shut?” she asked, half-rhetorically.

             Stark coughed in surprise, seemingly choking on one of the dried blueberries he’d been eating.

             “What?” he demanded.

             “One of the myths,” she explained. “Loki gambled with some dwarves and it went wrong, so Thor sewed his lips shut as punishment.”

             His face was briefly twisted in a mixture of horror and consideration. It seemed improbable that the oversized, friendly bear of a man upstairs would ever hurt his family, much less in such a manner. And yet…Thor had been quick to dismiss his relation to Loki. He’d been the one to fasten chains and a muzzle around Loki’s wrists and jaw. Whatever love he declared to hold for his brother, it didn’t seem to run deep.

             Whatever reply Stark was about to make, however, was cut short by a red warning flashing onto both their screens: _Thor Odinsson approaching._ Stark’s hands flew out, minimizing the research he’d been reading and replacing it with what looked like schematics of a new arc reactor; Natasha left her own full of the untranslated Norse she’d opened. It wasn’t exactly hard to explain that she was curious after meeting two gods.

             “Hey there, Point Break,” Stark greeted over his shoulder, “what’re you up to?”

             Thor strolled in, expression surprisingly inscrutable.

             “I was merely exploring your fortress,” he offered nonchalantly, clearly oblivious to the tightening of Stark’s shoulders. “It is indeed a formidable abode.”

             “Yeah, thanks,” Stark muttered. “You know, if you want a tour, you coulda’ asked.”

             “My apologies, Stark,” Thor replied, seemingly sincere. “I did not intend to trespass; it is merely my wont to know the place in which I reside.”

             There was something unspoken there, something that piqued Natasha’s curiosity and made her look up. For all intents and purposes, Thor looked like a well-built man in his early thirties. Underneath the t-shirt and jeans, however, there was a darker something that whispered of things she could only barely imagine: centuries of life and war and politics. Of course he would want to know the place in which he was staying without an escort to shade his view.

             “Hey, Thor,” she called, voice chipper, “you know how to read Norse?”

             He started a little, clearly surprised.

             “I knew, once,” he admitted, walking closer to her screen, “but it has been many ages since I had cause to read it. The libraries of Valaskjálf are enchanted to read as you require.”

             “Come again?” Stark prompted, perking up.

             “You need only speak and they will rewrite themselves in your tongue,” Thor explained absently, leaning over Natasha’s shoulder to read.

             There was a long pause as he began scanning the text and Stark stared thoughtfully at the god’s head.

             “It is speaking of seidr and – and-,” he broke off for a moment before visibly recomposing himself. “It is a story of the Midgard serpent – the seidr employed to contain it. It is a child’s tale.”

             He swallowed, expression tight.

             “Why are you reading this?” he asked after a moment, voice strained.

             “I’m in the same building as a god,” she answered lightheartedly. “I was curious.”

             There was another slow pause. Distantly, thunder rumbled.

             “Why are you reading this?” he repeated, voice measured and hard.

             “It’s nothing, Thor,” she reassured. “I was just curious.”

             Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Stark watching carefully, fingers itching towards the command keys for his suit. Thor’s face was tight around his lips and eyes, tension quivering in his hands.

             “I may be a fool, Widow,” he warned, a taut roll in his tone, “but I am the brother of the Realms’ most skilled liar. Now, answer me truthfully: what business do you have reading such tales?”

             Natasha was trained to handle super soldiers. She was trained to take down invincible weapons. Still, the air crackled like static around Thor, his fingertips pressing hard enough into the tabletop to warp it. Stark’s hand was hovering with three fingers posed over the command keys.

             “Look, you’re right,” he admitted abruptly. “We’re checking out your brother.”

             It was hard to say whether the tension in Thor’s arms and face eased any or if it only transmuted into a different form, but the metal tables stopped releasing tiny blue arcs of lightning.

             “Why,” he ground out, no question in the inflection.

             Stark turned to Natasha then, only a flick of his eyes. The tic was back, growing into raised tendons in his clenched hands.

             “Loki’s in SHIELD’s custody,” she explained.

             “Then why was I not permitted to see him?” Thor demanded. “What have you done with my brother?”

             Here, Natasha faltered. Thor was still staring through the screen before him, arms quivering with the force of not breaking the tabletop.

             “Loki isn’t…himself,” she started, uncertain. “He’s…”

             Thor’s expression remained unreadable throughout, tension wrought into every line and emotions warring in his storm-blue eyes. Natasha made herself continue, even when the table began to creak weakly in protest, and even when Thor’s stormy eyes threatened rain.

 [E1]What is this again?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I'm working on Chapter 14 now! We're almost done :D (oh, as an explanation, there are 15 chapters if you don't include prologue/interludes)
> 
> On a related note, I forgot to publish the last interlude before posting Ch11, so you can go back and read that now if you want.
> 
> As always, thank you so much for your patience and support! It means the world to me.


	17. Chapter Thirteen

        The rooftop was quiet, calm – thunder only a far-off whisper. Slumped on the very edge, Thor stared straight down, through the heedless passersby, through the rough dark street, and struggled to comprehend all he had been told. It seemed impossible, that his brother would be so cruelly treated by these mortals who professed to be Thor’s friends, and yet – yet how had Asgard treated him any differently, they who had known Loki since infancy? The air quivered with taut electricity – then, a soft rustle of wings.

        “I am in no mood to speak with you, Huginn,” Thor warned.

        The raven ruffled its feathers but said nothing, its head only tilted to give Thor an appraising scan. He was long used to its piercing stares and drawn silences, but they had never ceased to itch just under his skin.

        “You will not persuade me to return to Asgard,” he finally declared, “so, leave.”

        “You run away from the problem, Prince,” it answered levelly. “Lady Sif and Hlidskjalf await you in the Realm Eternal and you will not escape your troubles by lingering in the mortal realm.”

        “My problems are that of Sif and the throne?” he demanded sharply, wheeling on the black bird. “My problem is that the Allfather has denounced my brother and cast him into the abyss. My problem is that he has allowed his youngest son to be attacked and brought low by a force I know not of!”

        He was half-yelling, but the raven stared unfazed back.

        “Loki is a traitor and has been dealt with as such,” it replied.

        “Loki is a prince of Asgard!” Thor spat.

        “No,” the raven answered simply, “he is not.”

_Loki Laufeyson – Lie-smith_

        Thor quivered, hands against the rough surface of the roof.

        “I cannot respect a man who took in a babe and raised it as his own only to throw it out when it proved inconvenient,” he said, forcing his voice to remain low and even.

        Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the raven’s wings ruffling and resettling in that manner it had of nervous tics.

        “Odin Allfather took the jotunn in hopes of forming an alliance with Jotunheim, and he sought to keep the child as nothing more than a tool,” it started. “He failed.”

        Thor started, turning to face the bird. It continued to watch him steadily, though he couldn’t tell if that was his father’s or the bird’s doing.

        “Odin has loved Loki as a son for all his life. He has sought to raise him with all the joy and love of Asgard,” it continued. “To see that turned against him now is painful.”

        “So he denounces him?” Thor demanded. “Why, so that no other man may see Loki as anything but a villain? To offer only hate?”

        “Perhaps that he might only hate Loki as a villain and not ache for his son,” the raven suggested mildly.

        Thor stared at it, molars grinding into each other. The sky had darkened, turned to brooding clouds and blanketing shadows.

        “I will not return without my brother,” he vowed finally.

        “Loki is beyond repair, Prince,” the bird warned, tone edging towards Odin’s. “He is damaged irreparably. How will he fare on Asgard as a traitor and disgrace, much less a jotunn bastard? It is far better to leave him here in his insanity and return to your place on the throne.”

        He didn’t recall standing, but he was – looming over the bird with the rain roaring down around them and breaking on the concrete roof. Even in the lightning-shattered darkness, Thor could see the raven’s wings tighten against its back like a safety net.

        “I am a Prince of Asgard,” he agreed, “but my name is not yours alone. I am the Thunderer, an Avenger, and the brother of Loki. My brother is mine to protect and I will not leave him to rot alone. You will rip my bones from my body before I will abandon him again.”

        The bird stretched its wings half-length, beady eyes dark and inscrutable.

        “If that is your answer,” it hissed.

        “It is,” he growled.

        Mjolnir hummed against him, singing out for him from her place some thirty feet below, and he pressed gently back but did not call. It was enough for the raven to flutter uncomfortably, eyes still fixated on Thor, before shooting into the dark sky. Alone once more, Thor’s shoulders settled heavy and back. He had work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So short. So cheesy. 
> 
> Haha ah yes. Two more to go, guys! 
> 
> As always, your comments, kudos, bookmarks, and general support mean the world to me!


	18. Chapter Fifteen

                  Even with JARVIS available once more, it was impossible to avoid Thor; she was too tied up in the mess of his brother and him and SHIELD. Her own web was tangled around and around her, and she couldn’t find the end of the strand. She made it up nine floors before meeting Thor coming down. The Asgardian was withdrawn and solemn, expression as dark as the low-hanging clouds outside.

                  Natasha barely glanced at him, letting her periphery fill in the information she needed and keeping her body loose and relaxed. She didn’t need a repeat of earlier to remind her that Thor was more perceptive than he let on. Her fingers still tingled with the memory of blue sparks arcing up against metal tables.

                  “Lady Natasha,” Thor began abruptly.

                  She glanced over, eyebrows lifted. He had shifted to face her directly, feet positioned firmly beneath his shoulders like he was bracing himself for some great blow.

                  “I would apologize for my behavior earlier,” he continued. “It was unseemly and rash. I understand that the means one uses to protect their realm may disconcert outsiders, and that that does not negate its necessity. It is – it is hard when they are used against your brother.”

                  His voice shivered and cracked, a fragile shell around something deep and aching. He took a deep breath, steadying himself and meeting her eyes with firm resolution.

                  “I would help you in any way I am able,” he concluded.

                  Natasha hesitated, sizing up his offer. It was a powerful olive branch, but that didn’t stop her wariness towards his ulterior motives.

                  “You want to save him,” she said, testing.

                  Thor nodded.

                  “He is my brother,” he answered. “I would walk to the ends of the Realms if that might bring him back to me.”

                  “And if he can’t be saved?” she asked.

                  His expression darkened slightly, blue eyes turning a rainy grey.

                  “Then, at least we can stop his hurt,” he said softly.

 _If I go back – if I lose myself again, you have to promise me. I can’t do it – I can’t do that again._ The memory burnt scarlet against her, pulsing with the slow tempo of a steady heart. She’d failed then, faltered when she needed to stand firm. She could still see it, see blue-grey eyes filled with – not disappointment, not hurt – just resignation and an aching, bleeding _loss._

                  She looked back to the elevator doors, unable to stand that expression on Thor’s face any longer. It was too familiar.

                  “Okay,” she agreed. “What do you have?”

                  “If you two are planning to take on SHIELD, you might want your team,” a new voice interjected from the PA.

                  Natasha resisted the urge to smack her head back against the elevator wall. Of course Stark was listening in. Naturally.

                  “I do not wish to trouble more of you than is necessary,” Thor replied.

                  “Well, we’re a team,” another voice returned, dry. “It’s kinda’ what we do.”

                  “Rogers?” Natasha demanded.

_How the hell did he get here?_

                  “Tony had a date with my shield,” Rogers explained, “and I didn’t want to miss out on all the fun.”

                   She could have laughed, the strange surge of relief and comfort overwhelming her.

                  “So what are your orders, Widow?” Tony asked.

                  She frowned.

                  “Rogers is the CO,” she pointed out.

                  “Pretty sure you get to throw out SHIELD hierarchy when you’re committing treason against SHIELD,” Steve returned.

                  She took her deep breath, letting it seep down through her lungs and chest into her toes. _Okay. Okay, we can do this._

                  “Okay, everyone in the conference room on 99 to debrief and plan,” she declared.

                  “Roger that,” Tony replied cheerily.

                  She could hear Steve complain in the background, but the PA shut off before it was really clear. Beside her, Thor shifted to press the button for the 99th floor without comment. She glanced over, unsure for a brief instant. It would be so easy to just let it slip by, to let loose nothing more than what she already had.

                  “For what it’s worth, I think he’s still in there, somewhere,” she said.

                  Thor’s lips twitched in the beginnings of a smile. It was still distant, drawn, but it was also the most honest expression she’d seen him wear. He glanced towards her with a slight nod.

                  “It is worth a great deal,” he said.

                  They fell silent once more, letting the elevator carry them up up up before stopping one floor short of the top. The door was open, the others already squeezed in around the long table. Natasha started slightly at the sight of Banner, hunched in beside Tony. He glanced up sheepishly, apologetically, but Tony didn’t let him start.

                  “Yes, I’ve been hiding Bruce,” he declared. “But he has some ideas on Loki.”

                  Natasha nodded, slowly. They needed what they could get. She didn’t stop Clint from looping his fingers gently around her wrist when she sat.

                  “So, breaking Loki out of the super secret SHIELD dungeon – no problem,” Tony started immediately. “JARVIS is still in their system, so I can take out the alarms, maybe set another one off somewhere else.”

                  “I can get the cameras,” Clint offered. “They’re wired straight to the downstairs system, so your tech won’t be able to get them.”

                  Tony looked as if he was about to argue the point before relenting.

                  “What about Loki?” Steve asked. “He’s really out of it, right? How are we supposed to get him out of there?”

                  “Mjolnir.”

                  The room as a whole swiveled towards Thor. He had his feet firm on the ground and shoulders square. A plan, it seemed, was all it took to settle him.

                  “If Loki is under thrall, then the spellwork needed to free him will be very complicated and require a great deal of seidr,” he continued. “Loki’s is – is not whole, but he can draw on Mjolnir to burn it off.”

                  “Burn?” Clint echoed.

                  “How?” Steve demanded. “He’s catatonic, right?”

                  Thor nodded, though it was hard to tell which he was confirming. Maybe both.

                  “He will need to be focused,” he started before taking a breath and studying Natasha briefly. “Lady Natasha has managed to draw him out before. It will be necessary again, but for…longer.”

                  _Oh._ Oh, now she understood the yawning ache underneath his earlier words. This was his penance, this was his great sacrifice. Thor could take pain and beatings and agony and laugh it off, but allowing it to happen to Loki struck the last nail in his cross.

                  “You want to _torture_ him?” Tony demanded

                  Thunder rocked through the building, a flare of lightning breaking against the glass.

                  “He is my brother! I would that no pain would come to him,” Thor spat. “I would that I could take any ills and bear them myself, but he is my brother, and if it is to be this pain or madness and death, then I will choose this. Always.”

                   “Let’s sit down and talk,” Steve suggested evenly.

                  Thor lowered himself slowly, back of his jaw clenched tight.

                  “So, we know Loki’s being mind-controlled, and that Natasha’s going to have to be down with him. Tony can run JARVIS from back here,” Steve surmised, “but Clint’s going to have to go in to dismantle the cameras, right? So we need a distraction.”

                  His voice was firm and even, the tone of a commanding officer who had led men into war over and over again and not always brought them all back out. It steadied something in her that had been shaken loose the very first time she picked up a scalpel in Loki’s cell.

                  Across the table, Tony shrugged.

                  “There’s a lot of Stark tech getting used without permission,” he suggested.

                  He said it carelessly, but there was a tight line to his shoulders and a hardness in his eyes. As disastrous as that mission has been, Natasha had gained a sort of sympathy for Tony’s guilt in the week she was Pepper’s PA. She understood, in a way, how it felt to have the blood of innocents on your hands when you didn’t make the call.

                  Steve met his gaze for a moment before giving a firm nod.

                  “Alright, so we can go in as the distraction,” he said. “Thor, you said Loki’s going to need Mjolnir?”

                  “Yeah, run _that_ by me again,” Tony prompted. “Doesn’t tall-dark-and-homicidal have his own magic?”

                  “And how’s he going to use a hammer that can only be lifted by the ‘worthy’?” Clint added.

                  Thor didn't even frown at Clint’s air quotes. He pressed his lips together and studied the table for a long moment before answering.

                  “Seidr – what you call magic – is a powerful force,” he started, “and it requires an equally strong will. Identity is key. Loki is” – he broke off and took a steadying breath – “A thousand years ago, Asgard fought a war against our greatest enemies, the monsters known as Jotunn. When the battle was won, Odin found a child – a Jotunn babe – and took him home to be a second prince.”

                  He’d grown pale, his golden skin fading to something ashy and sick. Against Natasha’s wrist, Clint’s hand had tightened.

                  “Loki found out,” he surmised calmly. “The core of his identity was a lie.”

                  Thor nodded weakly.

                  “He’s used Mjolnir’s seidr before,” he said. “If he only has the chance, I know he can use it again.”

                  Around the table, the team’s faces were a mix of pity and something sickly. They were all monsters, in one way or another, Natasha realized with a silent jolt. How much blood was covered up by the paint on Steve’s shield? How much fear was hidden in Tony’s cutting grins? She took a breath to steady herself and found, for the first time, that she almost felt as if she belonged.

                  “Alright,” Steve said, drawing himself straight and firm. “Let’s get him that chance.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These are like the most sheepish notes ever, so first off: I'm so so sorry it's taken me so long to update. I really don't have an excuse, but I am sorry.
> 
> There's only one chapter left, so I think I'll try (key word here) to get it out before NaNo starts. If I don't, I promise it will eventually come.
> 
> Hope you guys still enjoy it and thanks so much for hanging in there!


	19. Chapter Fifteen

                  Getting into SHIELD was easy, of course. She had escaped the Red Room before SHIELD ever knew her name; slipping through the security of the New York branch was child’s play, even without the aid of a distraction upstairs.

                  “I almost feel bad,” Clint commented in her earpiece. “I know Stark’s smart, but he’s going in circles around these guys.”

                  Natasha let out a small huff of breath as she shimmied through the ducts.

                  “What about Rogers?” she asked.

                  “Waiting in the wings,” Steve replied.

                  He’d been the one to plan it, even with Natasha nominally in charge. She’d been glad for it: she was a skilled operative, one of the very best, but her talents laid in solo missions. Organizing a team had never been a part of her training. Steve, though, seemed to have been born with a tactician’s mind. He’d begun outlining a plan in minutes, leaving half the team staring at him in silent confusion. When he realized it, Steve had flushed pink to the tips of his ears.

                  “I read a lot of military history,” he said, “before the war. It’s old-school, back from the Great – from World War I – but SHIELD might not suspect it from their own operatives.”

                  Clint had only nodded, looking utterly baffled.

                  Now, though, he relayed a play-by-play into Natasha’s earpiece as she slid down into the final corridor. There were two more checkpoints and then she was in. Cakewalk.

                  “They aren’t getting Nick yet,” Clint said.

                  “Smart,” Natasha replied.

                  Nick Fury was a brilliant strategist and leader and one of the few people Natasha genuinely trusted, but his last name wasn’t a misnomer. With the world’s most powerful agency resting on his shoulders, he didn’t have patience for unnecessary nuisances.

                  Natasha paused outside the door to the last passageway, waiting as the guards stationed there moved on to the rest of their rounds. Slipping through, she strode down the hall, brazen. Clint had taken care of the cameras already with a well-placed shot to the basement mainframe. For an instant, he’d panicked that he was letting out all the prisoners in the subbasement cells, but a quick word from JARVIS had set everything back into motion.

                  Now, Natasha slid a knife into her palm and flipped it once, twice. It was a borrowed tic, but it had the same effect of steadying her that it had once had for the Red Room’s greatest ghost. She focused in on it, her steps carrying her evenly, sharply to the last door.

                  “Natasha.”

                  She stilled. Fury was nine or so strides behind her according to his voice. She kept her shoulders loose and turned to face him. She could knock him out if she needed to.

                  “Nick,” she greeted.

                  “Your teammates are upstairs,” he remarked.

                  She smiled sweetly.

                  “The Black Widow doesn’t have a team,” she answered.

                  “You know, I heard an interesting story about that once,” he said.

                  His voice was even, face inscrutable. Natasha made sure hers matched.

                  “It was an old Cold War story,” Fury continued. “About a widow and her soldier. She led him to a trap.”

                  “Well, widows are known for their webs,” Natasha replied.

                  Cold was creeping through her skin, shivering down her arms under her sleeves. Fury nodded.

                  “Contrary to popular belief, though, they don’t often kill their mates,” he pointed out.

                  “You know better than anyone not to believe stories,” Natasha said.

                  Her smile had turned brittle on the inside, all sharp teeth pointing back at her.

                  “You’re right,” Fury said.

                  His comm crackled.

                  _“Director, sir, we have an issue. We need you in the lobby.”_

                  Fury met her eyes.

                  “I’ll be right there,” he answered.

                  He lowered the comm.

                  “Just stories, huh?” he remarked as he turned away.

                  Natasha watched him walk away, body still poised and prepped to flee. Fury paused at the end of the corridor, just before turning the corner. When he looked back at her, it was with a mix of emotions she couldn’t parse.

                  “Be careful, Natasha,” he said. “Legends start as truth.”

                  Then he was gone and she was left with her heart pounding in her ears. Turning, she ran the rest of the way to the cell. She paused just outside to grab a scalpel from the prep room before keying in the lock code and sliding in the door. It hushed shut behind her with a soft breath of air.           

                  “I’m in,” she said.

                  There was a long silence on the comms, then –

                  “Be careful, Tasha,” Clint said.

                  She pulled the chair from under the table and settled on its edge. She took a deep breath, steadying herself. For the first time, she didn’t feel any spiders scrambling under her skin in the room. She was focused, honed, and a mission-ready numbness settled over her like armor.

                  “Your name is Loki,” she said with the first cut. “You were raised alongside Thor as prince of Asgard, with Odin as your father. All your life, you were told you were born to be a king.”

                  She made short, even cuts across his wrist like tally marks. Loki stared through her with distant blue eyes.

                  “It was a lie,” she said.

                  His eyes flickered: a hint of green, then – gone. She pressed on.

                  “You’re no prince and certainly not a king,” she continued. “You were cast out on a frozen rock for Odin to find. You were never his son. You never stood a chance for the throne.”

                  The green warred with blue in Loki’s eyes, shifting in a way that made Natasha vaguely nauseous as she watched the bright green and dull blue clash.

                  “What you are is the Trickster,” she said, “the Lie-smith. You have tricked kings and queens around the realm. You even tricked the Mad Titan.”

                  She took a breath and dug the scalpel in deep. His eyes shocked into green at the gash.

                  “You need to do it one more time,” she said. “I need you to focus. Mjolnir’s here, can you feel it?  Use it. Burn him out. We’ll get you out of SHIELD – away from all of this – but you have to take him down.”

                  She’d slowly twisted the scalpel as she spoke, but even before she’d finished, his eyes had started fading back to blue. She dug into a fresh spot, urgency flooding her. He couldn’t go down now. Not when they’d put so much into this. They were going to get him out. They weren’t going to leave him here. _She_ wasn’t going to leave him here. Not this time.

                  “Loki, Thor’s here,” she said. “He came all the way here looking for you. He’s so worried. He left Asgard behind, defied Odin – all for you.”

                  Red covered his arm in a faint sheen, sluggish. She sliced through the inside of his elbow and met his eyes.

                  “Thor loves you, Loki,” she said. “He loves you.”

                  Green eyes widened slightly, then – white. The room was filled with it, a white light that burnt through her eyes.   Natasha gasped, shoving herself away from the table. She fell, hitting the concrete floor hard on her right arm. Closing her eyes, she scrambled across the floor until her fingers hit the corner of the room. She curled fetal and pressed her hands over her eyes.

                  The air was vibrating, rattling like shards of glass against her skin. She shook. Tears wet her fingertips. The light still burned through, turning the insides of her eyelids red, then white. She was going to be blind. She was never going to see again. She whimpered.

                  The air tightened. With a hard breath, she forced herself to peek through her fingers. The room was enveloped in that white-gold light, but it was starting to shift. Green tendrils curled out from the center, snaking through the blinding mass.

                  Her eyes ached and she shut them tight, furiously wiping away the tears that continued down her cheeks. Behind her eyelids, the afterimage of white-gold and green wobbled.

                  Abruptly, the air went slack. Gone was the electricity; instead, it was only stale, recycled air again. She forced her eyes open, but she couldn’t see past the aura burnt into her retinas.

                  A shapeless form moved in the corner of her eyes and she jerked towards it. She couldn’t make out features, couldn’t find details, but there was the needling impression of power that pressed against her with an ocean’s weight. She shifted into a defensive crouch, trying to follow the amorphous shadow. There was a low chuckle.

                  “Well, hello Agent Romanoff.”

                  She tensed, bringing her hands up. Loki’s shadow loomed over her, blocking out the rest of the bright-white room. She still couldn’t make out much, but as he stopped before her, she caught the curve of a sharp, bloodletting smile.

                  “Oh,” Loki purred, “this will be fun.”

                 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only a little less than three years later, it's done! This definitely took some turns and shifts I didn't expect and I'm really appreciative of all the feedback y'all have given over the years. Thank you so much for reading (and especially for those of you who've hung in there this long); I'm really, really flattered and so glad that other people have enjoyed this.
> 
> If you have any comments/ideas/complaints, leave them below or at [ my tumblr ](http://www.curiosity-killed.tumblr.com).

**Author's Note:**

> I actually made an outline for this! It's 15 pages long. I'm sorry.


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